Skyrim: The Rising Dark
by Wolfbane192
Summary: Five years have gone by since The Dragonborn ended The Dragon Crisis and Skyrim seceded from The Empire. Now he lives the quiet life with his family, until Ulfric Stormcloak shows up with a new mission for him. Seemingly random attacks are happening across Skyrim. They are brutal, leaving no survivors in their wake. Once more The Dragonborn must take up arms to defend his country.
1. Prologue

**Skyrim: The Rising Dark**

On the night of the twenty-second day of Frostfall, in the 207th year of the Fourth Era, an Imperial Legionary cursed his luck.

His name was Cassius Valentius and he cursed his luck over and over again as he shivered in the cold. He was from the Gold Coast, born in a small village just north-west of Anvil, where his family had raised horses. However being the second son he'd have had nothing to inherit so instead he'd joined the Imperial Legion on his eighteenth name-day. Four years later, here he was, stuck on a gods-forsaken mountainside somewhere north of Cheydinhall, in the middle of a moonless night, guarding a hunting lodge.

"_Fucking rebellion." _He thought to himself as cold wind from the north scoured his face. _"Fourth Legion couldn't hold one damned province and now I'm here, babysitting."_

After Skyrim had fallen to Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebels, those of Skyrim's Jarls who had stayed loyal to the Empire had come south, at the invitation of Emperor Titus Mede II. If they came, the Emperor'd said, they would be treated with the respect they deserved as true and loyal servants of the Empire. They would be kept in circumstances fitting to their former stations and protected. Which meant footsloggers like him, good soldiers with fire in the bellies and strong sword-arms, were now stuck looking after half a dozen nobles and their families.

Officially the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's bodyguards, were command of Operation: Babysitting, but he'd not seen one of those bastards up here, freezing their asses off in the Valus Mountains. How the Nords stood this cold he'd never understand.

"_And I just had to get this assignment didn't I?" _Cassius thought, trying to edge closer to the nearby brazier. _"Pullo gets to look after another one of these nobles down in the Niben Valley, while I'm stuck here in the coldest bit of Cyrodiil." _

At that moment he heard a horse whinny out in the dark.

"Who goes there?" He called out, hand falling to his sword.

"A friend." A voice answered. From the familiar accent, Cassius could figure out the rider was from the Gold Coast as well.

"What's the pass-phrase?" He demanded, sticking to regulations.

"Stendarr's Light." The rider replied.

Letting his hand fall from his sword-hilt, Cassius answered. "Pass, friend."

With that the rider approached, afoot and leading his horse by the reins. He was a tall man, and though not large carried himself with a sense of well-honed muscular power. As he drew closer and the fire illuminated him, Cassius' eyes widened as he saw black armor of leather and steel and the purple tunic beneath.

"_Pentius Occulatus." _His mind told him. _"And not just any, a damned Praetorian. Emperor's own guard."_

Then his eyes caught sight of the crested helmet that hung from the saddle horn of the black stallion the Praetorian was leading; the crest was the black and purple of a Tribune. Immediately he snapped to attention.

"Sir." He said, performing the customary salute: fist over heart, then arm extended, hand flat and facing the ground.

"At ease soldier." The Tribune said, at which Cassius relaxed. Walking up next to the brazier, the man pushed back the hood of his purple riding cloak. He was an older man, his short cropped hair and beard more grey streaked with black than black streaked with grey. He had a typically Imperial appearance; tanned skin with an aquiline nose. A pair of dark eyes looked out from under a heavy brow. His sword, Cassius noticed, was an impressive piece; the hilt of white ivory, scored to provide grip, and the pommel shaped like the head of a bird.

Holding his hands over the fire to warm them, the Tribune spoke again. "I am Praetorian Tribune Marius Corvus, Penitus Oculatus." He looked at the younger soldier. "Yourself?"

Cassius gave the response promptly, still keeping his eyes on the inky darkness before him. "Legionary Cassius Valentius, sir. Tenth Cohort, Seventh Legion."

"The Seventh?" Tribune Corvus said, nodding. "Good men. My father served in the Seventh during the Great War. Fine group of men."

"Best in the whole Legion sir." Cassius replied, suppressing a grin.

"Indeed." Tribune Corvus answered, smiling. "Anyway, I'm inspecting the various places the northern Jarls are staying. Making sure everything's going smoothly."

"Very good sir." The legionary answered.

"And?" The older man asked.

"Sir?" Cassius replied, turning to look at the officer.

"Is everything going smoothly?"

"Oh!" Cassius exclaimed. "Yes sir. Everything's fine, all's quiet."

"Good, good." The tribune said. "And how're the Jarl and her family doing?"

"Jarl Idgrod stays abed most days sir, combination of age and she's still mourning her husband." Cassius answered, to which Corvus raised an eyebrow.

"I thought he died in the rebellion." He said. "Killed by her bodyguard when he tried to stop him running away when the Stormcloaks came."

"He did sir." Cassius explained. "But I suppose her grief cuts deep." He didn't want to say it, but Jarl Idgrod had always been, odd. Talk of visions and seeings and all that.

"And her children?" Corvus asked.

"Her son and daughter wander around the valley most days, sir. We keep an eye on them, no trouble."

"Good man." Tribune Corvus said. "Well soldier, I'll be going."

"You don't need to speak to the Jarl, sir?" Cassius asked, again confused.

Tribune Corvus shook his head as he put a foot in one of his stirrups. "No, no. No sense getting her up at this hour. I should be back in a month."

"Very well, sir." Cassius said as the Praetorian swung himself into his saddle. The Penitus Oculatus sure had odd practices.

At that moment, a terrible, bone-chilling wail echoed from the hunting lodge. In an instant the Praetorian was off his horse, sword drawn. Cassius followed him as he burst into the hunting lodge. Rushing through the main hall, the two men ran up the steps of the grand staircase. From other doors the other guards, most of them only wearing bedclothes, joined them.

"The Jarl's room?" Corvus demanded.

"This way sir." Cassius answered, taking the lead.

As the group of Imperial soldiers piled into the corridor that held the rooms of the Jarl and her family, they saw her daughter, Idgrod the Younger, hammering at the door to the Jarl's bedchamber, whilst a young boy simply stood in the doorway of the room opposite, a vacant stare on his face. She turned to the men, her eyes wide and frantic.

"Mother cried out, but the door's locked from the inside." She explained, tears of desperation pricking at her eyes. "Please, you've got to help her!"

"Stand aside, miss." Tribune Corvus said, sheathing his sword.

Not even questioning him, the young woman stepped aside, which allowed both he and Cassius to take positions in front of the door. Rolling his shoulders, the Tribune looked over at the younger soldier, who nodded. Together they slammed into the door, their metal armor clashing against the oak. After three tries the door gave way as the lock was forced from its socket and the entire group of people piled into the room from which the blood-chilling wail had emanated.

The Jarl was in a terrible state; she was laying in her bed as stiff as a board, the sheets thrown against the far wall. Her hair was disheveled, her mouth half open and her eyes gazed seemingly unseeingly at the ceiling above her. She was not dead though, for all could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. However she did not seem to even notice as half a dozen armed Legionaries, as well as her daughter, burst into her room.

Idgrod the Younger, understandably shocked at her mother's condition spoke first.

"What's wrong with her?" She asked, eyes darting around to meet those of her guards. "This has never happened before."

"I don't know, miss." Cassius said, staring at the stricken Jarl though keeping a hand out to stop the young noblewoman from dashing forward, in case there was anything dangerous.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, Tribune Corvus looked down at the woman on the bed.

"Jarl Idgrod?" He said, casting his eyes over her form, looking for wounds, signs of a struggle, anything. "Can you hear me?"

There was no response. The Jarl just lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

Deciding to try another approach, Corvus reached out, intending to see if physical contact could rouse the Jarl. But just as he was about to touch her arm, the Jarl's aged hand shot out and grabbed onto the black steel of his bracers with almost impossible swiftness and strength. Such was the speed of Jarl Idgrod's response that the Praetorian's other hand nearly went for his sword.

Then, with a voice as dry and rasping as a death rattle, the Jarl called out, her eyes changing, rolling back so only the whites were visible.

"_The forgotten enemy returns, from deep within the bones of the Old Kingdom. It returns and death follows it, death to the children of Atmora. Death for the acts of the dead." _

Then the old Jarl's grip slackened, her had fell from Corvus' wrist to lie slack against the bed and the light faded from her eyes. There, in a hunting lodge far from her true home, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone breathed her last.

For a moment, all was quiet as those assembled took in what just happened. It was if time had paused for a brief moment as they all silently looked down on the now deceased Jarl, whose final moments had been so disturbing. Then that moment passed; Idgrod the Younger ran to her mother's side, tears streaming down her face as the grief began to hit her. The soldiers shot uneasy glances at each other, before Tribune Corvus moved past them, leaving the room. Then turning, he addressed the legionaries.

"You'll stay here to protect the Jarl's family." He ordered, bringing them all to attention. "I'll ride to the Imperial City and inform the Emperor and the Elder Council of what has happened."

"Yes sir!" They all chorused.

However, a moment after the tribune left the corridor, Cassius ran after him, his mind wheeling from what he'd just saw; had it been Daedric possession, a true seeing, divine intervention? He caught the Praetorian just outside the lodge.

"Sir!" He called as the Tribune mounted his horse.

"Don't worry soldier." Corvus said, donning his plumed helmet. "I'll let it be known that you performed your duty to the best of your abilities. You won't be punished for this."

"Thank you sir," Cassius answered. "But that's not it."

"Then what?" The Praetorian asked as he wheeled his horse.

Fumbling for a better way to put it, Cassius just said it plain. "Just what in the name of the fucking Eight was that, sir?"

"I don't know." Corvus answered. Then he looked northwards, towards the border. "But if death is coming for the sons of Atmora, then the Nine save them."

Before Cassius could even respond to either the response, or the Tribune's use of the Nine, the Praetorian spurred his horse and was soon lost in the inky blackness from which he had come. Once again alone outside the lodge, with the embers in the brazier beginning to burn low, Cassius to turned his gaze north, towards Skyrim.

"_Maybe it was good that we lost the province." _He thought to himself as the wind howled around him, whipping at his cloak.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Months later..._

A cold wind hissed through the trees away from the road, hitting the small column of hooded riders head on. None of the men, all mounted upon the finest horses from Windhelm stables, were bothered by it though. They were Nords, they well knew the harshness of their homeland and it's sudden snowstorms, its howling winds. All save for the rider at the head of the column, who hunched his shoulders beneath his light hooded riding cloak.

The rider was a young man, barely into his twenties. His brown hair was shorter than most Nords, but not cropped like an Imperial's, and the faintest shadow of a beard was taking root along his jawline. Despite the biting cold, which he had never dealt with growing up with his mother, he was glad to have been taken along on this trip. He was in the company of heroes, behind him rode Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and High King of Skyrim and behind him Galmar Stone-Fist, the renowned warrior and general. Even the guard at the rear of the column had been one of the first through the gates at the Siege of Whiterun. These were men that the bards sang about, the ones who had freed Skyrim from the grip of a dying empire.

"Eyes up boy." Came the harsh voice of the Stone-Fist. "We're almost there."

It was a good thing that they had almost reached their destination, after nearly a week's hard ride from Windhelm, for it was late in Frostfall and night was closing in quickly, the sky was now a burnt orange as the sun dipped everv further below the horizon and the twin moons of Masser and Secunda were already visible in the heavens.

Coming over a rise, the young outrider was the first onto the final stretch of road that lead to their destination.

Rorikstead was a large enough settlement, most communities having swelled in size since the end of the Stormcloak Rebellion, when soldiers from the Stormcloak Army returned to their families without fear of being caught and imprisoned by Imperial or Thalmor agents. Since that time three more homesteads had sprung up in Rorikstead, along with a forge and a small barracks for the small detachment of Whiterun Hold Guards.

Riding between the small valley formed between two outcrops of rock that marked the Northern approach to the hamlet, the hooves of their horses clattering audibly upon the worn road stones, the small party arrived at the small stockade of felled and sharpened logs that now ringed the town. As soon as the gate guard saw who it was that approached, his mouth visibly dropping open as he beheld the face of the High King himself, he stepped aside and opened the way to the small cavalcade.

Dismounting, the soldier who'd been the rearguard for the entire trip took the reins of the group's horses and led them away for feeding and cleaning. It was clear that they would not be needed again that day, night was fast approaching and the roads were still dangerous in the dark, despite the patrols of both the army and the Hold Guards.

As the soldier led the horses away, an elderly man dressed in fine clothing came running up.

"King Ulfric," He panted, skidding to a stop in front of the party. "I wasn't aware you were coming. If I'd known-"

"It's alright Rorik," The High King interrupted, quelling the man's apology with a raised palm. "This is a discrete visit, not a royal one." After taking the crown he'd gone on a royal tour of the nine holds, stopping at every major and minor settlement, letting the people see their new king.

'We're to see him Rorik." Galmar Stone-Fist rumbled, stepping next to the High King.

"Of course, of course." The village elder replied, before motioning for them to follow him.

* * *

Bunched together the small party made its way through Rorikstead. A few of the hamlet's inhabitants turned to look at the group, it was rare that a group of travellers would be seen to so urgently by Rorik himself after all. However they soon turned back to their various tasks; harvesting the last of the crops of the year that had not yet been pulled from the good dark soil, staring out over the tundra, watching for trouble. Soon the day would be done, the fire in the tavern stoked high and the little village would come together to drink and simply be together, save, of course, for the unfortunate guardsmen who drew the night watch.

Arriving at a side street, the old village head gestured down it and the small group followed his instruction. As they walked the sound of metal striking metal, which had hung over the village, mingling with the other everyday sounds of a rural town, grew stronger and stronger. Its source lay at the end of the street.

The building itself was not unusual, perhaps slightly on the larger side but all in all it was a typical building like any other found in Whiterun Hold: a timber frame upon a bedrock of stone with thatch covering the roof. To one side of it, under a lean-to built into the wall of the house, was the cause of the sound of ringing metal. Beside a forge made from shaped black granite blocks, its coals still burning brightly, a young man, not much older than the youngest member of the group, his long brown hair tied back behind his head in a low knot, was hammering at a small block of glowing metal. Sparks flew with each strike, soaring into the air before fading away to nothing, and the look of intense concentration on his face was nothing short of impressive. He was not alone, sitting on the nearby workbench was a boy, no more than five or six years old, intently watching the young man. The evident wonder of the boy was heartwarming and brought a slight smile to even the Stone-Fist's face.

As the men, approached the house a woman emerged, carrying an empty basket in her hands. She possessed a strong beauty to her, with dark red hair and a young girl followed at her heels. By her similar age she was evidently a twin of the young boy, despite their different appearances: whilst the boy was blonde, the girl shared the dark red hair of the woman.

The woman didn't even seem to notice the party as they arrived, she simply walked over to where a washing line hung between two stakes that had been hammered into the soft earth and began taking the dried clothes from it and handing them to the little girl, who in turn placed them carefully into the basket. It was in fact the little girl who noticed the group properly, letting out a small gasp and immediately getting behind her mother, who looked up at what had frightened her daughter.

"Hello there," She said, her tone civil, before continuing on with her work. The young man at the forge momentarily looked up, before getting back to his work, now driving a dull spike through the shaped piece of metal. "What do you need, supplies? I'm afraid the shop's closed for the day."

"We don't need supplies ma'am," The youngest member of the company said, stepping forward. "We need to speak to your hus-"

"I'm afraid you can't." The woman said, her voice now cold and decidedly unfriendly. "If your business is that important you can wait in the inn for him."

"I don't think you understand ma'am," The young man said in reply, trying to keep his cool. "The High King himself is here, he needs to speak urgently with your husband." His eyes shifted quickly over to where the blacksmith had stopped hammering and was looking over at them.

"Even if King Ulfric is here he can go wait in the inn. My husband will talk to him there."

The young Nord had had enough, he had tolerated not being addressed directly, he had tolerated the woman's incivility but now she was commanding his king to wait in the tavern like a common lout. That he would not have.

"Now you listen here woman," He said, stepping forward, his voice rising in anger. "You are talking to your king. You will show the proper respect."

"Hakon." Came the cautioning voice of Galmar Stone-Fist, low and rumbling.

"You will show proper respect or-" His hand dropped unconsciously to his side, resting upon the haft of his steel war-axe.

"Hakon!" This time the Stone-Fist barked the word.

What happened next he could not tell, he could not tell if first he heard the arrow or felt the pain as the steel broadhead nicked his ear and soared on past, to sink into the wood of the outer palisade.

Spinning around, one hand flying to his bleeding ear, the other to his war-axe, Hakon was ready to fight, to protect his king. However it seemed he had dangerously misread the situation. Both the King and the Stone-Fist were glowering at him. The young blacksmith had abandoned the piece he was working on and had hefted his large forging hammer, his muscles tense and ready for action, and was also staring at him. However the disappointment and anger in their eyes was nothing compared to the icy look in the grey eyes of the new arrival, who was stood halfway down the street that led to the forge. The stranger, rather than the young blacksmith, was the man they'd actually come to see.

He was just as the tales had described him; tall and solidly built with long blonde hair that hung loose save for four thick braids and with a thick, though not long, beard covering his strong jaw. In his hands was a recurved hunting bow snd by his side not only the carcass of the deer he had obviously brought down that day but also a huge, dark hound, which had its hackles up and its lips pulled back in a vicious snarl.

The man before him was none other than Eoric Greystone.

The Dragonborn.

And it seemed he'd just threatened his wife.

* * *

Slinging his hunting bow over one broad shoulder, The Dragonborn hefted the field dressed deer carcass he'd brought back over the other and strode down the street towards his home. At his side his large, black wolfhound padded alongside him, alert and ready to defend his pack. As they drew closer the dog surged ahead and placed itself between it's mistress and the youth with the bleeding ear, who promptly backed off a few steps when confronted by the snarling wolfhound. His master kept his stride, walking straight up to Galmar Stone-Fist and Ulfric.

"Galmar," He spoke, his voice deep and powerful. "Who is this boy, and why was he threatening my wife?"

"The boy is Hakon, Eoric, and though he's a hothead at times, I doubt he wished your wife harm." The Stone-Fist replied, his gruff voice calm and collected. Though other men may have been threatened by the towering form of The Dragonborn, he was not. He'd known him since he'd been a newrecruit in the Stormcloak army, before the Greybeards had summoned him to High Hrothgar. He then turned to look at the errant youth, whose eyes were still fixed at the wolfhound in front of him. "Isn't that right Hakon?"

The youth then turned, letting his hand fall from his ear where already the blood from the nick the broadhead had given in was starting to stop. He looked at the two older men, saw the Dragonborn's eyes full of controlled, vindicated anger.

"If I gave the impression I meant any harm to your wife, sir, I apologise. It was not my intent." He said, bowing his head slightly.

At the refined, almost courtly words, Eoric raised a questioning eyebrow in Galmar's direction, before nodding in the boy's direction. "Good, though I think you'd have been in over your head. My wife's almost as good with a knife as I am, you have to be when the only thing between your family and any would-be bandit is a log fence."

And with that, as though there had been no incident whatsoever, he walked up to his wife and took her in his arms.

"Hello my dear," He said quietly, before relaxing his grip and ooking his wife in the eyes. "Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone?"

"Not really love," Ysolda answered. "Apart from the time I caught Magnar trying to climb up onto the forge's roof."

"Is that so?" Eoric asked, arching an eyebrow in the direction of the young boy, who'd taken cover behind the young smith. Upon seeing everything was now alright, however, both he and the little girl surged forward with all the speed of youth and wrapped their arms around their father's legs.

"Hello father." They chorused.

"Hello you two," Eoric answered, chuckling at their synchronicity and ruffling their hair. "Have you been good for your mother?"

"Yes!" They said again in chorus, releasing their grips.

"Good, good."

"Magnar, Eira, go inside and play," Ysolda said, her voice warm. "I'll been in soon, okay?"

"Okay!" And with that they sped off inside, followed by the hound who obeyed a non-verbal command from his master to go with them, both pushing against the door to open it and then dutifully closing it again.

Eoric then turned his attention to the older youth by the forge, who was still glaring daggers at Hakon, the large forging hammer in his hands.

"Hroar!" He called, snapping the youth's attention to him. "Have you finished that hammerhead for Ennis yet?"

"Yes father." Hroar replied, laying down the hammer and crossing over to where the hammerhead still lay upon the anvil, its glow now a deep cherry red. Picking it up with the tongs, he held it up to his father who had joined him by the forge. "Here."

"Let's see." Eoric spoke under his breath, casting a critical eye over the glowing piece of metal. It was well shaped, with no visible imperfections in the iron. Motioning for his adopted son to put it back down, he clapped Hroar on the back. "Well done my boy, we'll make a smith out of you yet. Finish up and then go set the table for dinner, add space for our guests."

Nodding that he would, Hroar went back to work, adding heat to the metal before reaching for a driving spike to finish making a hole where the wooden handle would be added. Meanwhile his father retrieved the deer carcass and, asking the royal party to follow him, moved around behind the back of his house. There, in the small corridor formed by the back of the house and the palisade, there was a bloodstained worktable and several hooks driven into the timber of the back wall of the house. Tying the carcass to one of the hooks with a length of strong, thick rope, Eoric took a thin curved knife from his belt and began properly dressing the carcass.

"So what brings the king himself to my door?" He asked over his shoulder as he cut into the deer's hide around the base of its skull.

"We need your help, Eoric." Ulfric himself replied.

"Obviously." The Dragonborn replied, making a long cut downwards to the breastbone, and then to the area around its stomach and pelvis. "Why do you need my help?" At that he turned. "Another assassination attempt? I can tell you who it was," he waved his knife in a vaguely southern direction. "Any bastard south of the Pale Pass." Turning back to the deer he made a series of cuts to its forelegs.

"That's not why we're here." Ulfric responded, his voice gaining an edge at the mention of assassination attempts. There had been three in the five years since he had ascended to the throne. One an attempted poisoning, another a wood elf with a bow, probably sent by the Thalmor and the last an Imperial soldier attacking him in the streets with a shortsword.

"Then what?" Eoric asked, grunting as he began to pull at the hide, using his knife to cut it free when he had to. Before long he had completely skinned the beast. The members of his impromptu audience couldn't help but the see the skill with which he went around his work. He had done this many times. As the conversation continued the sound of metal striking metal faded as Hroar finished his work at the forge.

"There've been numerous attacks on supply caravans going to and from army depots." Since the rebellion had ended, Ulfric and Galmar had created the Royal Army of Skyrim, which operated outside of the chain of command of Hold Guards and Jarls. It was mainly comprised of former Stormcloak Rebels, though many fresh recruits had joined up since then. Each Hold had its own supply depot that fed supplies to the men stationed in the country's multitude of forts, which in turn sent news and updates via messenger bird to Galmar at the headquarters at Stormcloak Keep, the renamed Castle Dour. He in turn passed along news to Ulfric at the nation's new capital of Windhelm. "Five in as many months. All across Skyrim. Supplies taken, wagons burnt, guards slaughtered."

"Probably legionnaires." Eoric replied, throwing a bucket of water over the carcass to rinse away any hair still stuck to it. "Hitting us like we used to hit them."

"It's not Legion." Galmar rumbled. "We wiped out the last group a year ago and the attacks themselves were too brutal, not efficient in-and-out like the Legion would do."

"Bandits then." Came Eoric's reply as he took a small saw from the worktable, knelt down and began sawing the deer's pelvic bone.

"Do you know any bandit group that can take out a detatchment of battle hardened soldiers? Let alone five?"

Eoric paused momentarily, his brow furrowing for a moment before he lay down the saw and, spreading the deer's forelegs, cut away the lower viscera, the rectum and the urethra, which he threw into a bucket under the worktable. Standing up, he wiped his hands on a rag hanging from another hook and walked towards the group of men, the deer could be butchered later, the chill of a Frostfall night would keep it till morning. "So you want me to find out what's hitting the supply wagons-"

"And end it." The king said, cutting him off. Then his expression softened slightly and he clapped a hand to one of Eoric's broad shoulders. When he spoke it was not as a king, but as a brother in all but blood. "I would not ask you if I did not believe you were the only one I could trust."

Standing directly opposite the man he'd followed into war almost six years ago, Eoric stared into the eyes of his king. Something unknown, a deep feeling in his blood and bone told him something sinister was at work here. Something that threatened the land he had saved not one but twice. "My king, I will do this for you." He spoke his voice low and serious.

"I am glad to hear it, old friend." Ulfric replied, letting his hand fall from The Dragonborn's shoulders.

"Now come," Eoric said, walking past the group and back around his house. "Ysolda will have finished dinner and I insist that you join us."

* * *

The heavy oaken door swinging open, Eoric led the royal party into what was both his shop and home. The heat from the hearth burning before them struck each man like a hammer blow and as they entered they were confronted by the fruits of the Dragoborn's labors at the forge outside. Finely wrought steel plate armor hung upon mannequins next to intricately riveted shirts of chain, which glinted in the firelight. Stacked and bound to racks were numerous swords and axes, greatswords and warhammers. The old warriors could see the quality of the work just by a cursory inspection. There too was more everyday items; felling axes, pots and pans, driving picks and hammers.

"You've been busy Eoric." Galmar said, admiring the fine metalwork before him.

"Well the gold I bring in keeps a roof over my children's heads and it keeps me active." The Dragonborn shrugged. "Some fools go around saying Dragonforge steel is better than even that of the Skyforge. But to my mind old Eorlund is still the best, there's something primal about that steel."

"Dragonforge?" Hakon piped up.

"The name of my store." Eoric explained. "You must have missed the sign over the door. I called it that because when I first kindled the forge, I summoned to Thu'um to light it. Ever since the metal has been finer, it holds an edge better and is lighter than most though still as strong."

"I'll have to have you make you craft me a new axe." That came from Ulfric, whose eyebrow had risen at the mention of Eoric using the Thu'um to heat his forge.

"You pay for it your majesty," Eoric replied, grinning slightly. "And it's yours. Now come on, dinner will be cooling."

Walking up the steps to the second floor, the group entered the main living room, which was dominated by a large dining table. Upon that table was an impressive, if simple, selection of food. At the center of the table was a large carved wooden platter, in which was a steaming haunch of beef, cooked in its own juices. Elsewhere there was breads and cheeses, as well as some preserved food, obviously brought out when Ysolda had realized that she would be serving extra guests; smoked fish and cold cuts of salted pork.

"Come, sit." Eoric said, beckoning to the empty seats as he positioned himself at the head of the table, as was his right as host. He then proceeded to pour wine for all save the young children, who made do with milk.

"A fine red, Eoric." the king said as he took a sip from the pewter cup before him.

"Surilie Brothers, 175 Vintage." His host supplied, taking a few slices of the salted pork for himself and adding another to his youngest son's plate. "Whatever you might say about the Empire, my king, they definitely make better wine than we do."

"I suppose." Came the grudging agreement. Ulfric had learnt at the beginning of his reign that his goal of 'Skyrim for the Nords' was ultimately doomed to failure. To be a modern, independent kingdom Skyrim needed to be open to trade and the influx of others. Due to that realization, he had opened up trade routes again. He was also in talks with the new leader of Hammerfell, which had too seceded from the dying empire. He hoped to secure an alliance with them, to unite the great warrior nations of Tamriel. At this point it seemed that would only be secured through a marriage to Lord Khafiz's younger daughter, Rienna. Though he did not wish for it, he would none the less do so if there was no other way. He would do all he could for his country.

Across from him Galmar was eating the stew that had been served in a wooden bowl. It was a fine, hearty mix of meat and root vegetables and though he was enjoying it, he couldn't help but notice he was being watched. Turning to his side, he saw Eoric's young son was looking at him.

"Yes lad?" He said, looking into the boy's open face. "What is it?"

When the child spoke it was with all the plainness and honesty of youth. "You're really, really old, sir."

"Magnar!" His mother exclaimed in reproach.

"It's alright lady." He said, holding up his hands. "The boy only says what's true. There's more gray in my beard now than anything."

"That and you seem to have gotten...stouter, Galmar." Eoric interjected, a sly grin on his face. "Court living seems to agree with you."

"Very funny Greystone, very funny." The Stone-Fist harrumphed.

The assembled group then fell into a reasonably comfortable silence, save for the occasional glance Hroar shot Hakon. He was not a person to let things lie easy and the youth had, meaninfully or not, put his hand to his axe in anger at his mother. Apart from that there was a warm feeling of togetherness that transcended rank and age, which only ended when the royal party made their excuses and left for their night's sleep at the inn, Galmar making a parting request to come see him the next day.

* * *

Later that night Ysolda lay in bed with her husband in their chamber off to the side of the dining room. Her head upon his shoulder and one of her hands was playing lightly and absently upon his broad, scarred chest. Many scars did her husband bear upon his person; an arrow scar here, a jagged knife cut there. Most all were upon his front, testament to how he had always faced his enemies head-on. She could not ask for a braver man, perhaps a less famous one, but definitely not braver.

"So you'll be heading off then?" She asked, whilst Eoric seemed to be boring a hole in the wall opposite their bed with his gaze.

"I'm afraid so love." He said, his tone regretful but also oddly absent.

"You can always say no, 'ric."

"I wish I could." Her husband replied, his gaze shifting from the wall to her, his eyes now full of care and affection. "But something about this seems off to me, I-"

"Have another gut feeling?" She asked. Since they'd married she'd come to learn to respect his 'odd feelings'. It had been one of those that had led them to set up shop in Rorikstead, that had led to the Honorhall Orphanage to adopt Hroar after a year of tring for children. She could still remember him growling at the old bitch who'd made the orphans' lives a misery under her care. She wished death upon no person, but she didn't weep when word was carried to them two years later that she'd died in her bed, alone and unmourned.

"Yes." Was his only reply.

She looked up at her husband, who met her gaze with those striking grey eyes of his. "Then go, my love." She said with conviction "Do your duty."

"You'll be here when I get back?" Tilting his head to one side as he asked, as he always did before setting out on any trip, be it a hunting trip or his yearly pilgrimage to visit the Greybeards atop the Throat of the World.

"Always." She replied, honestly, letting her arm drop and lie still upon his chest.

"Then I have nothing to worry about." Eoric replied, grinning lightly.

Though as the night wore on and his wife fell asleep upon him, The Dragonborn couldn't help but feel uneasy about his upcoming mission. Something was stirring in the dark, what he could not tell.

But it was nothing good.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: _**

**Well there you have it, the first chapter down with many more to go. I hope you enjoy it, reviews welcome of course. Criticism is fine, as long as it is constructive.**


	3. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Hello there. To the five of you who actually follow this story, I apologize for not updating in a good long while. Real life issues took over in a big way, ways that meant I couldn't give this the time it deserved. However in recompense I offer you the longest chapter to date. Enjoy. Reviews welcome, of course. _

**Chapter 2**

It was the first rays of sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the window shutters that roused the Dragonborn from his slumber. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm before looking down at his wife, who too had woken up due to his movement.

"Morning my dear," He said, smiling lightly as he brushed a strand of hair from his wife's face. "Sleep well?'

"Aye my love," Ysolda replied, returning the smile. However that soon faded as she fixed her husband with a look that was both serious, sad but also resigned. "You're leaving today, aren't you?"

"I am." Eoric replied, sighing slightly. "Better be gone before the trail gets cold."

"Very well." Ysolda said, before exhaling as she pulled herself up out of the warm bed. "Well, we best get the children up."

"Indeed, we should." He replied, getting up as well.

As his wife got dressed behind him, The Dragonborn splashed some water from a bowl on his bedside table onto his face and neck and then opened up the one unlocked chest that stood against the wall on his side of the room and donned his own clothing. First he put on a pair of light linen undergarments and over them a pair of thick, grey woolen trousers and socks, over which he pulled on a pair of fur-lined, black leather boots. He then donned a lighter grey woolen undershirt and above that a sleeveless doublet of black leather, which he tied shut with a black belt with steel fittings. Turning to his bedside table again, he swept up his bronze hammer shaped Amulet of Talos and looped it around his neck. Completing his morning ritual by lightly kissing his wedding ring, an old and well made piece of gold with a polished piece of Onyx set in the center, whose twin lay upon his wife's ring-finger, he looked over at Ysolda, who had dressed herself in a dress of homespun green wool.

"After you, my dear." He said, bowing and sweeping an arm towards the door to the central kitchen plus dining room, a slight grin on his face.

Walking into the room that dominated the second floor of their home, only prevented from being their entire second floor due to the presence of their sleeping quarters, Hroar's bedroom and that of their twins, Eoric and Ysolda went about the business of getting the house ready. Ysolda went to one of the cupboards that lined one side of the room and began assembling the crockery for the family's morning meal whilst he went about setting the fire in the hearth, which had burned down low during the night to naught but a few glowing embers.

Nudging Conall, the great black hound, who had fallen asleep in front of the fire both awake and away, Eoric knelt down and started laying a new fire. Using some dry tinder and the barely glowing embers of the previous blaze, he coaxed a flame to life. The flame he then fed with increasingly larger pieces of timber until soon he had a good blaze roaring within the hearth. Some fools would've asked him why he didn't simply summon the Thu'um to light it, but to him the Thu'um remained a gift of Akatosh, like Master Argeneir had said so long ago when he was first summoned to High Hrothgar. To use it for household tasks seemed... demeaning.

So focussed was he with the task of lighting the fire, he barely registered the fact that his wife had been talking to him as he added the timber.

"Sorry my dear, what were you saying?" He said, standing up and allowing Conall to regain his place in front of the now roaring fire.

Ysolda sighed slightly, then repeated herself. "What with you going today, what do you want doing with that shipment we've got coming in?"

"That's the steel, quicksilver and ebony, right?" Eoric asked, dusting his hands off as he gathered up a cooking pot and hung it over the fire.

"Uh-huh."

Adding the ingredients for the morning's porridge to the pot, not just oats but nuts and dried fruit, The Dragonborn spoke over his shoulder as he watched it start to cook. "Keep the quicksilver and ebony locked up tight, Hroar can use the steel if we run out; though I don't see that happening unless all of Whiterun Hold comes looking for cutlery."

"I've been meaning to ask you, 'ric." Ysolda said as her husband came to help her lay the table. "Why did you send off for that stuff? The quicksilver and the ebony?"

"I figure it's always good to have such stuff close to hand." Eoric shrugged. You never know when some little lordling'll come riding by, wanting some commissioned piece." He looked over at his wife, a smirk twisting the corner of his mouth upwards. "Remember that sellsword that came around last year? Wanted a hand-and-a-half sword made of ebony?"

The smirk was returned in kind. "Was that the one you threw through the window?"

Another shrug. "He shouldn't have gotten so angry when I told him the transport cost for the ebony would be included in the price."

"You could have at least opened the window first 'ric." Ysolda pointed out.

At that moment their eldest, dressed in a loose cotton shirt and a pair of leather trousers walked in, scratching at his long, unbound, brown hair and yawning.

"Morning mother," Giving Conall a pat on his head as the great hound bounded up to him. "Father."

"Good morning darling." Ysolda said, adding the finishing touches to the table.

"Morning Hroar." Eoric responded, having gone back to the cooking pot over the fire to stir at the porridge with a ladle. "Go get your brother and sister up will you? Breakfast's nearly done."

"Sure thing." The young man, spinning on his heel and going back the way he had come.

Whilst the eldest of their his roused the younger ones, Eoric began to ladle the morning's meal into the bowls Ysolda handed to him, which were then placed onto the table, the steam rising from them snaking into the air. Hroar soon reappeared with Eira, still dressed in her nightgown, mumbling a 'good morning' as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes wearily with her bunched fists. Magnar, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Hroar?" Eoric said, sitting down at the head of the table. "Where's your brother?"

"Huh?" Was Hroar's reply as Eira sat down, a seemingly knowing smile on her face. Turning back the way he had come, he looked for his little brother.

And promptly burst out laughing.

Magnar was still dressed in his bed-clothes and around his neck he had tied the wolfskin blanket from his bed. He strode into the main room as imperiously as a five year-old possibly could and when he spoke it was with an impressive amount of regality.

"Bow to me!" He called out as he walked around the room, the blanket dragging along the ground behind him. "Bow to the Wolf Lord!"

His whole family was truly amused by the five year old's antics, but his parent's wisely held back their laughter. Stern masks slamming down over amused smiles, Ysolda and Eoric regarded their son with parental glares.

"Magnar!" Ysolda spoke out in a tone that was both surprised and serious. "Take your blanket off and come sit down."

"You cannot command me!" The youngling insisted. "I am the Wolf Lord!"

"Magnar." His father rumbled, his voice low and authoritative which instantly grabbed the young boy's attention. "Obey your mother."

Even a rebuke that mild robbed the youth of all pretension towards not listening to his mother's demands. It was an old double-act the two adults played, one which had served them well during their years of parenthood. If their children would not obey their mother, then they would face their father, who, although he had never struck his children, always seemed to be able to make them do what they had to, just by lowering his voice.

True to form, Magnar scurried off and returned promptly, sans the wolfskin blanket. Sitting down, he and his whole family started eating their morning meal. The meal passed with varying threads of idle conversation: Eira talking about the dream she'd had that night, in which she'd been floating high above the town, drifting like a feather in the breeze; Magnar inadvertently ratting out his brother's late-night exit from the house through the window in the hallway that separated their sleeping quarters, neither of his parents were surprised, they both knew he was courting Sissel, one of Lemkil's daughter's, and they approved, Sissel was a sweet girl and neither of them blamed her for her father, an ornery fellow who had only stopped beating his girls because Eoric had told him that if he ever raised a hand to either one of his children again, he'd beat him ten times worse.

And so it went on, the easy conversations of a tight-knit, loving family. However, as the meal wound down, Eoric addressed his offspring in a tone of jarring seriousness.

"Children," He said, instantly their faces turned to him. "I'm leaving today and I don't know how long I'll be gone for."

There was a moment of heavy silence as Hroar and the twins processed what their father had just told them. Eventually the eldest spoke up.

"This has to do with the King showing up? He asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Aye," His father answered. "It does. Which means you'll be the man of the house until I get back. Keep your mother and your brother and sister safe. Look after the forge and remember what I told you."

"If you only think you can do it, don't do it." Came the near instant reply.

"Good boy," Eoric said, nodding his approval. "I don't want to come back and hear you hurt yourself because you thought you could forge some wanderer a dwarf metal warhammer."

Though they had stayed silent, it was plain the twins had understood what their father had said, for the expressions on their young faces were disconsolate. In a flash Eira shot out of her seat and rounded the table, whereupon she wrapped her arms around her father with a strength born of emotion.

"Don't go daddy," She almost pleaded, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Please don't go."

Eoric looked down at his daughter, a sad smile playing across his lips. "Eira," He said, lifting his daughter's gaze to meet his own with a finger under her chin. "I have to go. The king has given me a task and I must see it done."

"But you'll get hurt!" She cried, tears beginning to run down her cheeks.

Getting up from his seat, Eoric knelt on one knee and looked his daughter straight in the eye. "I promise you. I won't get hurt. It's probably just some bandits that need seeing off, and I used to fight _dragons,_ remember?" A smile hid his own unease at the white lie.

All that he got in reply was a small, unconvinced nod and an even tighter hug. Though at that moment Magnar also piped up.

"But pa," He said, with a small frown below a furrowed brow. "You said you were going to take me riding with you tomorrow."

Eoric again smiled at the simple nature of his son's complaint, not a plea, no tears, only a reminder of a promise he had given him beforehand. A promise he now had to break.

"I'm sorry pup," He said, looking at his son, who was still seated by the table. "But we'll go riding when I get back, alright?"

"Okay..." Came the reply, half mumbled.

"Now," He said, finally breaking his daughter's embrace as he stood. "I have to go see the Stone-Fist at the inn, so I need you two," He laid a hand upon his daughter's dark red hair. "I need you two to help your mother clear the table. Can you do that for me?"

He received near simultaneous nods from the twins. He then shifted his gaze to his eldest. "Hroar, you know what you need to do."

"Aye father." His son replied, getting up from his seat and heading downstairs, patting his little sister on the back as he did so.

With a heavy sigh, Eoric smiled. "Well, best be off. Can't keep the High King's general waiting can I? I'll be back soon." And with that he followed his elder son down the stairs and out the front door.

* * *

Stepping into the early morning chill, Eoric filled his lungs with the cool air with a deep breath before striding forward with purpose down towards the main street whilst behind him Hroar went around the back of the house and got to work, finishing off the butchering of the deer that he'd brought back the day before.

As he walked, he found himself, almost absentmindedly, thinking about his life. There had been a time, to tell the truth not very long ago, where he had simply been a wanderer, seeking battle and death solely for pay. Then, hard up on coin, he had traveled to Skyrim and his life had taken a very decisive turn. Within a few years a common sellsword had risen to be not only a hero of a newly independent nation, but the man who had saved the world.

His line of thought was quickly cut off, however, as a voice he'd come to know reached him. It was Raccan, a Redguard fur trader who'd moved into the town two years ago. He'd been opening up his shop's shutters when he'd spotted Eoric walking down the street.

"Eoric!" He said, walking up to the Nord with a smile on his face. "How're things?"

"Not bad Raccan." Eoric answered, coming to a halt. He liked the Redguard, and often traded him the pelts he took from his hunting kills if he didn't need the leather. "How're things with you?"

"They're good, I've got a shipment underway with the inn at Whiterun. The courier should be back with the money in a few days." Raccan replied, smiling visibly despite the woolen scarf he had wrapped around his lower face. He'd come to Skyrim from Hammerfell and still hadn't gotten totally used to the cold.

"That's good." Eoric replied.

Raccan then cast his gaze towards the inn. "Eoric, is it true that King Ulfric is here? Snorri said something of the kind when he was coming off duty." Snorri was one of the town guards, a Stormcloak veteran who'd dropped out after the war.

"Aye, he is." Eoric answered. "It seems I'll be out of town for a while."

Catching on to Eoric's meaning, Raccan nodded. "I see. Well good luck. I'll keep an eye on things while you're gone, when I can."

"Thank you Raccan." Eoric said, nodding goodbye before continuing on his way.

* * *

Galmar was sat by the main fireplace of the inn, staring into the flames, a jug of mead by his side. Though he'd never admit, not even to Ulfric, he was starting to feel old; the cold bit more than it used to and the wound from a hammer-blow to his right knee was now a constant ache. The fire was good, it warmed him and robbed his knee of some of the pain. He knew it was only natural, he was now past his sixtieth year, but Talos-dammit that didn't mean he had to LIKE it. He was Galmar Stone-Fist, General of the Stormcloak Army, it had been his axe that had laid Whiterun low.

That had been a damn fine battle, he mused, filling his cup with mead and taking a sip as he did so. The night of the 10th of Sun's Dusk, the snows had come and covered the tundra, a foot thick in some places with the wind howling down from the Throat. The camp fires had done little then but each man was warm nonetheless, their blood running hot at the thought of the battle to come.

They'd pounded the city for hours with catapults before finally the great oaken gates had shattered in their posts. Then it was a simple matter, cut through the legionnaires and the Hold Guards defending the barricades in front of the gates, storm the city and force the surrender of Jarl Balgruuf.

He'd never forget the sight, near the entire Stormcloak army charging the barricades with a horseman in finely-wrought steel plate at the forefront, the tip of the spear aimed at the forces of the dying Empire. Only he and Ulfric had known the identity of the man behind the full great-helm. He'd felt Eoric's pain at the idea of having to attack the town that'd been his home and supplant the man who had called him friend, but when the mysterious plated warrior had shown up in camp, never showing his face, he'd known he'd made his choice.

He'd been a giant that day, his horse leaping the barricades whilst Eoric swung and slashed at the Imperial forces with a greatsword, the steel shimmering crimson under the pale full moon. This had been before he'd forged the sword that all the bards sang of, or donned the armor that'd stand up to the fire of Alduin.

The barricades taken and the Imperials retreating back through the shattered gates, he'd led the Stormcloaks into the city, the plated figure by his side. The Companions, electing to stay neutral in the fight for Skyrim,an act he did not like, but understood, had barricaded the townsfolk inside their meadhall so the only people in the streets were soldiers. The blood ran freely, staining the snow that still lay in the streets. It took barely two hours for Whiterun to fall, such was their ferocity.

Aye, a good battle. Though Eoric had fought with all his might, he knew the man felt bad for his part in it. Even so, he'd never expected what happened during the first post-war meeting between him, the newly crowned King Ulfric, Eoric and a few of the regional captains.

Among the other affairs of restructuring the newly independent Skyrim, Eoric had actually stood up and requested Balgruuf, the stubborn ox that he was, be reinstated as Jarl. At first there'd been uproar, Istar Cairn-Breaker, who'd lost his brother in the battle for Whiterun, had been the most vocal, growling at Eoric, saying he'd gone soft and that he insulted the dead of that battle with his demand, a battle that he'd supposedly not even fought in. But Ulfric had roared at them to be silent, before letting Eoric say his piece.

To his credit, Galmar thought as he drank his mead, he'd spoken very well, his speech full of vigor and passion. He spoke of how, if they said they upheld tradition, they could supplant the man whose family had ruled Whiterun Hold for centuries. He reminded them all that Balgruuf had done only what he thought right and that at the time they had been rebels, no matter how right their cause had been. He remembered one line very well, directed straight at Ulfric:

"_You didn't ask for his allegiance, Ulfric. You demanded it. At swordpoint. I know because I held the sword."_

Then he'd spoken of what they intended to do instead. Of who they intended to have rule in Balgruuf's place. He said he greatly respected Vignar Greymane, at that point he'd since joined The Companions so he'd met the man often, and Eorlund as well but he did not believe the other members of Clan Greymane,who'd inherit after the aging Vignar died, were right for the role. Ulfric had weighed the words, carefully. Gods, he'd even slept on the decision, so serious was his consideration. And in the end he actually agreed. When Vignar passed away two years after the war ended, Balgruuf was reinstated by royal decree, the Greymanes mollified by tracts of land to the north of the Hold, as well as Thorald Greymane being raised to a member of Ulfric's household guard. For his own part, Ulfric also 'suggested' Ralof of Riverwood, a good man Galmar thought, be named as Guard Captain for Whiterun, a way of keeping a man whose loyalty he couldn't question within Whiterun.

His reminiscence was interrupted when he noticed Hakon standing to his side.

"Yes lad?" He asked, looking up at the young man. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering if you needed anything, sir."

Galmar harrumphed, returning his gaze to the fire. "A draught that made me twenty years younger maybe." He looked back at the lad. "Some more mead, lad, and another cup."

"Right away." Hakon answered, nodding his head slightly before walking off.

He was a good lad, Galmar thought as he went back to contemplating the flames. A little reckless at times perhaps and quick to anger, but otherwise a good lad. His father, he remembered, had been a good man: solid, dependable. His loss had been a sore one.

At that moment the tavern door swung open as Eoric walked in.

Saying hello to the barkeep as he walked over, he sat down in the chair next to Galmar.

"Morning." He said, rubbing his hands together.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?" He asked, a slight smirk on his face. He knew he hated small-talk.

"Don't start." Galmar said, nodding at Hakon, who glanced at the Dragonborn when he set down the jug and a second cup. "Now go see the king and see if he needs anything." Galmar said, catching the youth before he was out of earshot. Ulfric was still in his room, reading some correspondence he'd brought with him from Windhelm.

"So why did you want to talk to me?" Eoric asked, filling his own cup.

"I'm calling in my debt."

"Okay." Eoric said. Years ago, during the Siege of Solitude, an Imperial soldier had taken a shot at him during the battle in Castle Dour's courtyard. Galmar had seen him taking aim and took the arrow for him, catching the arrow high in his chest. Since then a till-now unspoken debt had existed between the two men. "What do you want?"

"When you leave, to hunt down whatever it is that's hitting our supply wagons," Galmar said, keeping a level gaze in Eoric's direction. "I want you to take Hakon along."

"Why?" Came the near instant reply, not dismissive or angry, simply curious.

"The lad is my charge," Galmar said, shifting forward in his seat. "But he has learnt all he can with me. He needs experience, time in wide open world. He can fight, but he has never seen combat. I can hardly go galavanting around in the wilds. I still have to turn a band of guerrillas into a standing army."

Eoric stared long into the fire and Galmar could see the wheels of his mind turning. He was calculating the odds, assessing, planning routes and updating supply needs. A man alone, he could go almost anywhere, if he had the skill, but add another man to the equation, an inexperienced man at that, and the whole game changed. Eventually, taking a long draught of mead, he spoke again.

"Alright." Came the accession, before he turned and looked at Galmar. "The lad-"

"Hakon." Galmar corrected him.

"Hakon. What's his story?"

Galmar sat back and took a deep breath. "Do you remember Fort Dunstad?"

"You know I do." Eoric's reply was gruff as his brow furrowed. Dunstad had been one of the hardest fought battles of the war. One that he'd taken part in as a part of his work as a 'wandering officer'.

"Do you remember Rayner?" The older man asked.

Realization dawned on Eoric's face in a couple of heartbeats. "He's Rayner's son?" Rayner had been the captain of the garrison at Dunstad.

"He is. Rayner sent him and his mother away to High Rock during the war. Taken in by a friend of his, Captain of the Guard in some place or another, I forget."

"_Well that explain the courtly language he used before." _Eoric thought to himself, the word courtly taking the place of the word polite. You simply didn't speak like that if you grew up in Skyrim.

"Anyway, a few years ago his mother died but she sent him to me. Rayner was a good man so I did right by his memory, made the boy my..." The Stone-Fist fumbled for a word, twirling his hand around his wrist. "Squire."

"How very knightly." Eoric deadpanned, a smirk twitching across his face.

"Shut up Greystone." Galmar bit back, though he obviously took the sting in jest.

"So do you want to tell him or shall I?" Galmar asked.

"You might as well." Eoric said, shrugging.

"Fair enough." Galmar agreed, grunting as he stood up from his seat, Eoric doing the same with a fluidity indicative of the near three decades that separated the two men. As they were walking across the main room of the tavern, Eoric grabbed onto Galmar's shoulder and pulled him close.

"I cannot guarantee his safety, Galmar." He said in a near-whisper, his voice low and serious.

"I know, lad." Galmar said, meeting Eoric's gaze. "I know."

Hakon was sitting opposite the other guard who'd accompanied Ulfric since Windhelm, Ordgar the One-Eyed. They seemed to making light conversation, talking about this and that, but they both shot to their feet when they noticed their General approaching, flanked by The Dragonborn himself, upsetting their now empty plates as they did so.

"We heading out soon sir?" Ordgar asked, nodding a respectful greeting to The Dragonborn, which was returned.

"In less than an hour, Ordgar, yes. So get your kit stowed and then see to the horses." Galmar replied.

"Yes sir!" The one-eyed veteran barked, before heading off to one of the inn's side rooms.

"And me, general?" The youth asked, his tone proper and respectful.

"You won't be coming back with us, lad."

"Sir?" Hakon said, his head tilting slightly in confusion.

"You'll be accompanying The Dragonborn while he gets rid of whatever's been hitting our supply lines." The Stone-Fist let his words sink in for a moment before good-naturedly punching the youth, on whose face apprehension was clearly winning the battle against exhilaration, on the shoulder. "Don't look so damn grim lad! It's about time you got some experience in the wide old world. Can't spend all your days looking after me!"

"Yes sir." Hakon replied, his tone slightly shaken as he still tried to wrap his head around the fact he'd be possibly fighting alongside THE Dragonborn; men would kill for the chance to do so.

At that point Eoric spoke up, crossing his arms as he did so. "You got any armor?"

The direct question took the youth slightly off-guard. "Huh?"

"Armor." Eoric said again. "Do you have any? 'cause you'll definitely need it."

"Oh!" Hakon exclaimed, before his voice fell away slightly in embarrassment and he looked down at his light leather over-tunic. "No, sir. I don't."

"Well we'll soon fix that." Eoric said, giving the lad a slight smile. "Get your gear and meet me outside."

"Yes sir!" And with that the lad sped away.

Galmar waited for a bit before speaking up again. "Well he took that better than I expected."

Eoric's looked over at the old warrior, an eyebrow raised. "Really?" He asked, incredulous.

"Really." Galmar replied. His brow furrowed slightly. "He's a good lad, Eoric. He'll surprise you."

"I hope you're right." Was all that The Dragonborn said in return.

At that point the king emerged from his room. He was wearing his usual attire, a plate empty save for a cup balanced precariously upon it and a few scraps of food. Depositing the plate on the bar with a thankful nod towards Mralki, the innkeep, who immediately took to cleaning it, he walked over to the two men.

"So Eoric? I take it Galmar has told you about your new traveling companion?" Ulfric asked, a wry grin ghosting over his face.

"Indeed he has." Eoric replied, it was clear from his tone he still wasn't sure about the lad.

"I'm sure he'll prove himself." The king reassured his old friend. "I learnt long ago not to question Galmar's opinions on people."

At that Galmar scoffed.

The lighthearted conversation faded, whilst behind the trio Hakon walked to the door, his pack slung over his traveling cloak. Looking deep into Eoric's eyes, Ulfric offered his hand.

"Good luck, my friend." He said, speaking seriously to the man he saw as close as kin. "Don't let me down."

Eoric took his king's hand in a tight wrist-clasp. "Never have. Never will."

Ulfric nodded. "Then go kill these damned fiends, then we'll have a feast and you can tell me all about it in Windhelm."

"Count on it." Eoric answered, releasing the king's wrist.

Then, nodding a farewell to Galmar, he turned on his heel and walked out of the inn.

* * *

Standing out in the cold, Hakon wrapped his dark blue riding cloak around himself. His mind was still slightly reeling from the new direction his life had just taken. Waking up that morning he thought that they would simply pack up and be on their way; General Galmar and he to Solitude and Ulfric and Ordgar to Windhelm after that. Now he was going to be journeying alongside a legend, not only a legend but a man he'd managed to find himself on the wrong side of within the first few seconds of meeting him.

As though called by his thoughts, The Dragonborn walked out of the inn at that very moment. Though he walked past him, he quickly looked over his shoulder, his expression serious.

"You have everything?" He asked, his tone neutral.

"Yes" Hakon replied, before hastily adding. "I mean, I do Dragonborn."

That provoked a wry grin from the older man. "Little tip Hakon, don't go around calling me 'Dragonborn'. We'll run into less trouble that way." With that he walked off, gesturing Hakon to follow.

Picking up his backpack and riding tack, Hakon hurried to match The Dragonborn's stride, he then Hakon spoke, slightly confused by the blonde man's words. "Less trouble, sir?"

"Aye." The Dragonborn replied, keeping his gaze straight ahead. "People actually figuring out who I am is rare, unless they seek me out especially. Most people expect the hero of legend, the Slayer of The World-Eater, what they get is a blacksmith or just a simple traveler. But when they find out, usually because somebody like you calls me 'Dragonborn', then everything changes. Most ask me for a tale of my adventures, or to forge them some spectacular weapon, but more than a few want to fight me."

"Fight...you, sir?" Hakon asked, still confused. The idea of willingly trying to fight a man who fought dragons, who could wield the power of the Voice with ease, seemed idiotic and a tad suicidal.

"Mostly it's young lads like yourself, looking to make a name for themselves. Other times it's drunken fools who think all the bard's stories are complete lies and that they can take me." The man explained, the wry smile returning as he looked at Hakon again. "Most wake up the next day with sore-heads and the purses empty to pay for the damages."

"I see." Hakon said as they turned into the side-street that led to the Dragonforge. "So what should I call you, sir?"

"Well you seem have 'sir' as your backup," The Dragonborn deadpanned. "But truly lad, call me Eoric. We're going to fighting together after all."

"As you say, si-Eoric." Hakon agreed as they came up to the house-and-forge.

"Speaking of which," Eoric said, spinning around to face Hakon fully. "Drop your pack. Let's see what you're made of."

"Huh?" Hakon asked, as out of the corner of his eye he saw the Dragonborn's eldest son, Hroar wasn't it, come walking around from behind the house, wiping off his hands as he did so.

"I need to see how you fight so I fit you out properly." Eoric explained, also noticing Hroar approach. "You carry an axe, but have you used anything else? A shield or anything?"

Acknowledging the reasoning, Hakon replied. "I've been taught to use an axe and dagger combination."

"I see." Eoric said, nodding slightly before turning to his son, who raised an eyebrow at Hakon's presence but otherwise silently walked over to the forge. "Hroar! Go get the training weapons would you? Greatsword, war-axe and daggers."

"Yes father!" Hroar said, dropping the hatchet he'd been about to start sharpening back onto the work table and speeding away indoors. A few moments later he returned, carrying in his arms wooden facsimiles of the weapons his father had described. Passing the wooden greatsword to his father, along with one of the daggers, which he stuck between his belt, he gave the remaining weapons to Hakon, a slight smile ghosting across his face as he did so. After that he went back to work at the forge.

Hakon turned the two weapons over in his hands, feeling the weight. He recognized that they were weighted immediately; a lead core running through the wood. An age old trick to build up strength and to really push recruits in training drills.

"Are you ready?" The Dragonborn asked, the blade of the wooden greatsword resting on his shoulder.

"I am." Hakon said, dropping into the stance he'd been taught both by his father and his teacher during his time in High Rock. It was a basic enough stance, dagger held in front in a reverse-grip, axe held upwards, by his face.

The Dragonborn responded by dropping into his own stance, planting his right foot forwards and bringing the sword up by his head and to the right, the bottom edge of the blade pointed horizontally down his line of sight. "Very well then. Let's begin."

And with that he surged forward. The wooden greatsword slamming down diagonally with such force that Hakon was only able to avoid a hefty blow to the shoulder that might have broken his collarbone had it connected. Again and again he was forced to either block the Dragonborn's attacks or else just get out of their way, which was quite the task as, quite unexpected for a greatsword, they were not easy to see coming. And each one of them was, if allowed to connect, a killing or immobilizing blow. This was not the swordsmanship of High Rock, where poise and great expressions of skill was the norm; this was Nordic swordsmanship, where the only objective was to kill your enemy and move on. Finally, after a quick succession of blows, the Dragonborn broke through his defenses, slamming into him with a shoulder-barge and knocking him to the ground. Before he could even think about getting up the tip of the wooden greatsword was a his throat.

"Not bad." Eoric said with not even a hint of mockery in his voice, offering a hand to the fallen youth. Pulling him up, he stood back a few paces from the lad and settled back into another stance; this time a high guard, with the greatsword pointed backwards over his head at a forty-five degree angle. "Again."

And so it went, for around half an hour the two Nords fought. Each engagement ended with Eoric victorious but Hakon showed his quality at times: once he was able to actually hook the greatsword's blade with his war-axe, but that failed as the Dragonborn's superior strength allowed him to simply rip the axe out of his hand. At one point he was even able to truly go on the offensive, driving Eoric back before he parried an overhead slash, span around behind him and tapped his wooden sword at the back of his neck.

"Not bad." Eoric said, his breath turning to mist in the cold air.

"You..beat me...everytime." Hakon answered, taking deep breaths as he did so.

At that The Dragonborn clapped a hand to the youth's shoulder. "Of course I did." He said, his tone serious, but not mocking. "Hakon, I've been fighting for the better part of a decade, I've fought Dragons, Undead and Talos-knows how many men. You've not fought anybody outside of the training yard, right?"

A nod was all he got in reply.

"So what else were you expecting? You weren't bad by any means. So just stick to what your teachers have taught you, keep your head and you'll be fine."

"I suppose." Hakon said, acknowledging the point.

"Now come on." Eoric said, taking the practice equipment out of the youth's hands. "Let's get you kitted out, your actual axe and dagger look good enough so we'll just focus on armour."

Walking to the door of his home, Hakon falling in behind him, he found Ysolda waiting for him at the door, a cloth and tankard of cool, clear water in her hands.

"Thank you my dear." Eoric said smiling. He used the cloth to wipe the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow, before quaffing half the water in the tankard with a couple of swigs. He then passed the tankard to Hakon, who gratefully accepted.

"I heard you practicing, so I figured you'd need some." Ysolda said, her gaze shifting to Hakon, who returned the tankard with a polite word of thanks.

Guessing the question about to pass his wife's lips, Eoric quickly explained. "Galmar asked me to take the lad with me, give him some experience."

"I see." Ysolda replied, before smiling lightly at Hakon. She had quickly forgiven the previous day's _unpleasantness_, seeing that he was just another quick tempered boy, not unlike her own eldest son. "Well I suppose I'll just pack another sack of supplies."

"Thank you ma'am." Hakon replied, bowing his head slightly.

"They'll be waiting for you upstairs when you're done." She said, before heading back upstairs.

Meanwhile, Eoric led Hakon into the shop part of the homestead. They passed through the numerous pieces of metalwork, impressively etched suits of steel plate and other such pieces. Eventually they reached an area seemingly dedicated to lighter armors, upon mannequins hung shirts of male, breastplates of boiled leather and scaled cuirasses.

"Take off your jerkin and your shirt." Eoric said, searching through his stock as he did so.

Obeying, Hakon stripped off his undershirt just in time to in time to catch a long-sleeved undershirt of padded grey material that Eoric had flung at him.

"Should help stop any bruising if you get hit with anything like a mace, warhammer." Eoric observed, before looking over his shoulder. "Though I would advise not getting hit in the first place. Go on, see how it fits."

Pulling on the shirt, Hakon tied up the lacings at the shirt's throat. The material was surprising not as scratchy as he'd imagined and seemed very warm. "Seems you have a good eye for sizes, Eoric." He said, bending and twisting, finding that it was practically a perfect fit.

"Comes with the job." Eoric responded, before looking over a few of the armor stands, casting a critical eye over them in an effort to find something that would fit the young man. "Here we go."

It was a intriguing piece, the armor that he pulled off the stand. It was a combination piece, the protection for the torso was a vest of scales, made of the mysterious bronze-colored dwarven metal stitched onto a backing of leather, while the long sleeves were of steel chain.

"Looks about your size, here, try it on." Eoric said, passing it to Hakon.

Donning the piece, Hakon was surprised at the lightness of it, dwarven metal was famously heavy. Once again the Dragonborn's skilled eye proved true, the piece fitted well. Next he was passed a set of gauntlets of thick brown leather that extended halfway up his forearm, with a line of steel studs lining the knuckles. The fingers were surprisingly well-made, allowing for a fine degree of movement of the individual digits.

Looking down, Eoric raised an eyebrow. "Your boots, good for riding. Not for fighting." He quickly crossed the room and searched through several pairs of boots. "Try these." He said, throwing a pair of shin-length boots. They were thick made of thick, brown leather and putting them on Hakon could feel that the toe had been reinforced with steel. Finally he passed him an open faced helmet of hide and steel fittings.

"Thank you." Hakon said, donning his cloak to see how it would hang over his new set of armor. "How much do I owe you?"

Eoric held up his hands, palms spread. "You owe me nothing, lad. I'd do poorly by Galmar if I let you get killed due to lack of armor."

"You're sure?" Hakon was both surprised and relieved, his coin pouch was a tad on the light side.

"I'm sure." Eoric confirmed. "Now pack up the stuff you came in with and follow me."

Walking up the stairs, Eoric was immediately tackled by a small blonde blur. Grunting in surprise, he looked down at his younger son, whose arms were wrapped around one of his legs.

"Hello there pup.' He said with a smile, ruffling his son's blonde hair.

"Hello papa." His son answered, smiling up at his father.

"Have you done as I asked?"

"Yes papa, I have." Behind him his sister walked up, smiling also. At her brother's response, she gave him a light tap on the shoulder.

"_WE_ did, Magnar." She insisted, before looking up at her father, her grey eyes wide.

"Well go out and play." Eoric said, chuckling lightly, tossing his head over his shoulder.

"Okay papa!" The twins chorused before rushing down the stairs, the great hound Conall padding after them unbidden.

Looking back over his shoulder, Eoric shot a quick smile at Hakon, who'd nearly been run over when the twins came tearing down the stairs. Only a quick sidestep had stopped a collision occurring.

"Wait 'til you have children, lad. Then trust me, all your skills at arms, at horse riding? They all count for naught."

Reaching the main dining room, Eoric and Hakon saw the sacks of supplies that Ysolda had put out for them, lying on the dining table, one already tied onto a dark leather pack which lay next to Eoric's riding tack. Ysolda had obviously taken the liberty of making her husband ready for his trip and now, judging from the light humming that echoed over the crackle of the fire, was now tidying the children's rooms.

"Stay here, Hakon. Get your supply sack and I'll join you in a bit." Eoric said, before heading into the room he shared with his wife.

* * *

Once inside he immediately crossed the room to the locked chest that stood against the wall on his side of the room. Pulling it out slightly with a heave, he retrieved the key from the small hook he had nailed into the back of the chest. With that key he undid the lock of heavy black iron and placed to one side, before throwing open the lid. Inside, wrapped in a cloak of thick dark wolfskin, was his armor.

Piece by piece he took it out, first the cloak and then helmet, an open faced piece with the jaw guards forged to resemble the jaws of a wolf. Next the chestplate, with the image of a snarling wolf set just below the collar, with the shoulder-guards edged in black wolf fur and the rere and vambraces made of banded steel. Then the thick black kilt, also of wolf fur backed with leather. Then there were the boots of thick leather plated with steel and then the gauntlets, with the image of a wolf's skull etched into the metal and with the fingers fitted so well that he could easily slip his wedding ring over the metal. This was the armor he had worn when he had journeyed to Sovngarde for the final battle against Alduin, the armor given to him by Kodlak Whitemane when he became one of The Circle of The Companions. Forged by Eorlund Greymane within the fires of the Skyforge and enchanted with protective magics by the mages of the College of Winterhold.

Without hurrying, the Dragonborn doffed his shirt and doublet, instead putting on a thick undershirt of dark wolfskin. He then put on his chestplate with all the ease of a man to whom heavy armor was practically a second skin. Then he pulled off his boots and then stepped into the armored ones, doing up the buckles to tighten them. He then donned the black wolfskin kilt, threading a thick belt of leather through the intricately added belt loops. Bending over, he drew also a heavy pouch of coin from the chest. In it lay around 300 gold coins, still Septims as currency was hard to change, even over the course of five years. He then, taking off his wedding ring, put on his gauntlets before sliding the ring back over his ring-finger. Finally he donned his heavy cloak, doing up the heavy clasps of black iron.

Leaving his helmet be for the moment, he knelt one knee and closed the chest that had held his armor before turning around to face his bed. Reaching beneath the bed, he drew out a large case of polished oak. Brushing off some of the dust, he opened the clasps that kept it shut. Opening the case, he beheld once again the weapons that were sung of in tales in taverns across the land. First there was the Stormblade, his greatsword, forged by him in the Skyforge one night out of a greatsword he had taken from the Tomb of Ysgramor himself and alloyed with Skyforge steel. He had made it in the style of the ancient blade it was based upon and since that day the great black blade had served him well. It was at this point in its scabbard, like so many other things of his made of dark wolf fur. Slinging it over one shoulder, he drew from the case his secondary weapon, a large heavy seax knife, the first blade ever made within the Dragonforge. Though ostensibly it served as a utility knife for clearing the way in dense forest, it also served its purpose when he had not the room to wield his greatsword. Buckling it to his belt he took from the case his longbow. This was not a bow used for hunting, rather it was a war bow, made to send arrows punching through plate and mail. Made by an old friend of his, again in the style of the ancient Nords, he had used it when called upon to in the war. Though not as skilled with it as he was with his blades, he was able enough to make a difference and it made decent sense to carry a bow, just in case.

Taking both it and the quiver of thirty or so arrows, he placed them on the bed and set about tidying up. Sliding the case back under the bed, he donned his helm and picked up his bow and quiver, carrying them under his arm. He'd attach them later to his saddle. Taking a deep breath as he felt the familiar weight of his arms and armor, he left the room.

* * *

When Eoric re-entered the dining room, Hakon could only stare, wide-eyed. To him it seemed that a man had stepped out of the room, but a legend had stepped back in. Though he had never doubted Eoric's deeds when he'd learned of them, the man before him could undoubtedly be the one who had slain The World-Eater, who had journeyed into Sovngarde itself and had met and fought with Tsun, Gormlaith Golden-Hit, Felldir the Old and his namesake, Hakon One-Eye. The Last Dragonborn.

"Am I that impressive lad?" Eoric asked, a smirk upon his face.

Before he could answer, Ysolda's spoke behind him. "I don't know, husband. You do seem to have a certain, soldierly bearing. That and the armor makes you seem bigger." Though he could not see her face, Hakon could guess from her tone that she had a slight smile on her face.

"Thank you, dear." Eoric said, crossing the room and embracing his wife, before giving her one, final kiss. "I'll be back before you know it."

"I know." Was Ysolda's reply. "Go, 'ric. Do what you what you have to do."

With a heavy sigh, Eoric turned aside from his wife and, picking up his pack he slung it over his shoulder and headed down the stairs, Hakon following behind him.

* * *

A few short while later, Eoric and Hakon stood at the village stables. There were stabled the horses of the few who could afford their keep, as well as a few for the guards, so as they could go for help or chase down thieves. The horses of the King and his party were already gone, save for Hakon's. The bay horse whinnied when it saw its owner arriving, but was more or less silent when he entered the stall, allowing Hakon to put on his bridle and other riding tack.

Meanwhile, Eoric went to the stall where Aegir, his horse, stood ready. Aegir was a fine horse, sixteen hands tall with a coat as grey as the winter sky. He was strong and fleet enough to catch a fleeing deer and he had carried Eoric through many dangers. Calm and kind, he nuzzled his owner's neck when he approached, but otherwise did nothing as Eoric took him out of his stall and set about making him ready for riding and strapped his pack into a secure place. Finally he tied his bow in the loops of leather by the side of the quiver and strapped it onto the saddle. Then, seeing all was well, he swung himself up into saddle.

"You ready lad?" He asked, looking over at Hakon, who was doing a final check of all the straps and buckles on his riding tack.

"I think so." Hakon replied, placing a foot in the stirrup and from there jumping into the saddle.

"Then let's get going!" Eoric said with vigor, nudging Aegir into a light trot. Only when they passed through the gates, where Hroar stood with Magnar and Eira, waving their father goodbye, did Eoric let Aegir truly run free as, with the sun rising before them, Eoric and Hakon rode out into the the wilds of Skyrim.

_And against an enemy neither of them expected._


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The sun to their left, the two riders sped south along the ancient roadstones, the clatter of their horses' steel-shod hooves piercing the still morning air. In the distance The Throat of the World, the tallest peak in Skyrim and indeed all of Tamriel, loomed over the tundra of Whiterun, the almost golden grass shining with dew in the sunlight. Around the mountain mist and low cloud shifted, concealing High Hrothgar, the ancient monastery of the Greybeards, from view. There Eoric had studied the ways of The Thu'um and indeed, even now he took a yearly pilgrimage up the seven thousand steps to train for a few weeks with the Masters of the Voice.

The two travelers pushed their horses on for a few hours, until finally, their path finally swinging eastwards, they reined in. As their horses slowed to a neat trot Hakon spoke up for the first time since leaving Rorikstead.

"I was wondering sir, where exactly are we going?" He said, leaning back in his saddle and reaching for a leather-covered canteen he had hanging from his saddle-horn with one hand.

"To Whiterun, to see what Jarl Balgruuf knows, then on to Riften." Eoric replied, scratching idly at his beard, his eyes gazing off into the middle-distance.

"Why Riften?" Hakon asked, taking a small sip of water to get rid of the dryness the ride had caused in his mouth before returning the canteen to its original position.

"I have contacts there, people who can help us." Eoric answered, his grey eyes shifting from the road ahead to the young lad riding by his side. "Hopefully they may be able to shed some light on whats happening to the supply convoys."

"I see." Hakon commented, wondering who exactly these 'contacts' were. Riften was not exactly known as the most lawful of towns but in the end he decided not to ask.

The two then rode on along the rode that spanned the line in silence, the Throat of the World getting ever closer as time went on. Eventually the silence was broken when Eoric shifted in his saddle slightly and looked over at his younger companion.

"So Galmar tells me you were lived in High Rock for a while." He said, his tone casual.

Hakon nodded slightly. "General Stone-Fist is correct. My father sent me and my mother there just after King Ulfric raised the rebellion."

"Where'd you live?" Eoric asked, momentarily looking ahead before shifting his eyes back in Hakon's direction.

"Northpoint." Hakon supplied. "My father was friends with the Captain of the Castle Guard." Eoric heard the young man's voice weaken and saw his head drop slightly at mention of his father, causing him to mentally chide himself.

"Northpoint, Northpoint." Eoric mused openly, hoping to stop the lad from focussing upon the loss of his father. "Fortress town isn't it? The banner a white tower..."

"Atop a black cliff with a background of grey." Hakon finished, at which point he looked back over at the Dragonborn. "You know it?"

"I travelled a bit as a sellsword, before I joined the rebellion." Eoric said, condensing five years of the life of a wandering warrior into a single sentence. "High Rock's always been good turf for mercenaries, what with all those bickering nobles."

Hakon nodded, remembering the groups of sellswords that had filled Northpoint's seedier taverns. Just as he was about to reply, he heard a deep rumbling that seemed to shake the very air, causing his horse to whinny ever so slightly.

"Thunder?" He asked the older man, his eyes shooting to the sky, which was reasonably empty, only a few grey clouds spread across the sky.

The Dragonborn shook his head once.

"Not thunder, lad." He said, before spurring his horse off the road and up a slight incline, motioning for Hakon to follow. Joining him on the hillock, Hakon could immediately see the cause of the noise before him. "Cavalry."

There, upon the tundra, a company of horsemen, perhaps two-hundred strong, was galloping westwards across the wide open plains of Whiterun Hold. They were the Whiterun Cavalry, part of the five-thousand strong contingent that Whiterun Hold contributed to The Army of Skyrim. Their armor was uniform; blackened sets of steel plate, trimmed in places with bronze, and behind them streamed cloaks of thick wool, dyed the same yellow color as the banners that hung from the spears of the company's first rank, emblazoned with the white horse of Whiterun.

As the pair of travelers watched atop their hillock, the company of riders, directed by their leader, his rank marked only by a white plume of horsehair upon his open-faced helmet, thrusting his spear into the sky, wheeled and began riding towards them at speed. Hakon's heartbeat quickened as the cavalry approached, their hoofbeats growing in such volume it seemed a wonder it did not cause an avalanche upon the Throat of The World. He quickly turned to the Dragonborn, his face twisted slightly in concern. But upon Eoric's face was no such concern. He sat back in his saddle, casting a critical eye over the approaching horsemen. Impressed, he saw the company effortlessly split into four groups, two dropping back slightly without missing a beat.

Within moment, the horsemen were upon them, pulling in their horses at the base of the hillock. Thrusting his lance into the dark soil, though still armed with a heavy looking broadsword at his side, the leader of the company alone trotted forward up the hillock. In reply Eoric nudged Aegir down the slope.

"Hail Companion. Where are you headed?" The horseman said with a gruff voice, observing the familiar armor of the Companions' elite as he raised an arm in greetings. Doffing his helm, which he placed upon his saddle horn, he proceeded to run his fingers through the long steel-grey hair that hung low to his shoulders, where it almost seemed to merge with his long, thick beard. Even at first glance he seemed every bit the professional soldier; solidly built with a barrel chest and arms that looked like he could probably smash a plank to kindling should he wish to and though one eye was scarred and milky white, the other ice blue one was bright and alert.

"Well met, kinsman." Eoric replied, doffing his wolflike helm in turn. But as he did so, recognition immediately flashed across the grey-bearded soldier's face and he quickly bowed his head. He had served in the Rebellion and had once seen Eoric before, during the Falkreath campaign.

"Apologies, sir." He said, whilst behind him the front ranks of his company dipped their banners in salute at their leader's words. "I didn't see it was you."

"That's not necessary," Eoric replied with a wave of his hand, evidently uncomfortable with the deference shown. Though he had not held an actual command in years, he still held the rank of General within what was then the Stormcloak army, as well, of course, as being the Dragonborn. "What's your name, Captain?"

Bringing his head back up, the Captain responded quickly. "Captain Isengrim Bittersteel, sir, Whiterun Cavalry. Out of Fort Greymoor."

"Bittersteel, huh?" Eoric asked, his lips curling into a small grin. "How'd you get that name?"

"It's my grandfather's sir." Captain Isengrim replied. In Nordic culture you possessed a personal name and then sometimes either a nickname or a clan name. Over time some nicknames even became clan names. Eoric's own last name was the latter. "Called so because when fighting a sabrecat, he got his arm trapped in its jaws but he had his steel mail on and was able to kill the thing with a dagger through the eye. His friends joked, saying the last meal the damned cat ever had was some bitter nordic steel." The Captain couldn't help but smile lightly as he told the story.

"A good tale, Captain." Eoric answered, nodding his head in thanks. "One I shall remember."

"Sir?" The Captain asked. "If I may ask, why are you out here? Do you have orders for us?"

"Nothing of the kind, Captain." Eoric said. "Royal business. The King wants me to track down those responsible for hitting your supply wagons. I don't suppose you know anything?"

"Aye, sir." Isengrim replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "It's a damned mess is what it is. Couple a weeks ago we got a caravan hit, coming up from the Reach to the fort. All the men killed. The Jarl'd know more though sir, the Hold Guards got there first."

"Thank you Captain." Eoric said, before turning to look at Hakon. "Looks like we're on the right track lad."

"Yes sir." The youth responded. Inside he was actually looking forward to visiting Whiterun; for the longest time he'd wanted to see the Gildergreen, as well as the great hall of Dragonsreach. Growing up in Haafingar and then High Rock had deprived him of the chance to do so before now.

"Well Captain, we must be on our way." Eoric said, donning once more his helm. "I hope we meet again."

"Aye sir, I hope so too." Captain Bittersteel replied, donning his own. "Happy hunting!" He called as he wheeled his horse and led his men away.

As the horsemen rode away, the rumbling receding like a great wave, Eoric and Hakon once again returned to the road and pressed on towards Whiterun.

* * *

The sun had just about reached its zenith in the skies above Whiterun when Eoric and Hakon reached the Hold Capital. Dismounting, Eoric took the Stormblade from where it was strapped to his saddle and slung it loosely over one shoulder. Not intending to stay long, he simply paid the stable master, Skulvar Sable-Hilt, a broad man with a bushy Horker mustache, to watch over the horses until they left and make sure nothing went missing. Eoric knew Skulvar well, indeed one of the young foals gamboling around behind the stable block had been sired by Aegir. Nothing'd 'get inexplicably lost' on his watch.

Carrying only their weapons and with helmets donned, Eoric and Hakon marched up the widing road to the main gate. Having been shattered in the Stormcloak siege of the city, it had been replaced under the orders of Jarl Vignar before his death, it was made of good strong oak, nearly a foot thick and covered in sheets of bronze, which shone like gold in the light of the sun. They now stood slightly open, the gap the width of a broad man, and it was through that gap that Eoric and Hakon, after being cleared by the gate guard, who immediately stepped aside as he saw the armor of the Companions beneath Eoric's wolfskin cloak, entered the city.

As soon as they entered the city, Hakon was immediately struck by the beauty of the city. The frames of the buildings, even the apparent meanest of them, were made of a fine, pale wood and they did not lack for carvings, traditional nordic designs winding their way across door frames and wall struts. The books that he had read all called Solitude the 'jewel of Skyrim' but in his mind they were wrong, this was true Nordic architecture, both strong and pleasing to the eye. Windhelm was Atmoran, Solitude nearly Imperial. But Whiterun was purely Nordic.

"Ulfberth!" The Dragonborn's voice cut across his musings. Looking to his right, he saw Eoric march towards what was a forge that stood right next to the gate, pushing his cloak back from his shoulders as he threw open his arms in greeting. The object of his attention was another Nord, clad in a thick leather apron. He was a bear of man, nearly as tall as the Dragonborn and just as broad, with long black hair, now streaked with grey, and a massive beard. Seeing Eoric approach, the man let out a bark of laughter before walking up to and embracing the armored man.

"Eoric, good to see you!" He said, releasing from the embrace. "How've you been?"

"Not bad, not bad." Eoric said, nodding slightly. "Yourself?"

"Eh," Ulfberth shrugged. "Surviving."

"And how's your forge-work coming?" He asked, grinning slightly.

At that Ulfberth put up a finger. "Wait here." At that he quickly walked over to a workbench and, after a little deliberation, picked up one of the pieces that were resting there. It was a breastplate of steel plate, the etched knotwork not yet completed. "Here you go." He said, handing to the Dragonborn.

Hefting it up so he could get a better look, Eoric ran over it with a critical eye, inspecting every inch of the plate metal. He ran his hand over the inside of it, feeling for deformations or poolings in the steel, where a blacksmith may not have evened the steel out and so left it thicker in places. Turning it around again, he took a look at the design being etched into the front of it. Finally he handed it back to Ulfberth.

"Ulfberth," He said, smiling. "This is a fine piece of work. Much better than you were making when I left you last."

"Truly?" Ulfberth said, seemingly surprised. "You really think so?"

"Aye." Eoric said, nodding. "However, your etching does need work." He put his finger up to one of spiraling parts of the design. "You're pushing too hard, digging too far into the metal. Weakens the plate, not by much but it's a habit that'll need breaking. What kind of metal is your engraving tool?"

"Steel-conrundum alloy." Ulfberth explained, putting the breastplate back on the bench before jerking a thumb towards the wall. "Got it off the Khajiit, what's his name?"

"Ri'saad." Eoric supplied, before returning to the matter at hand. "Try Orichalum, it'll bite the steel better so you won't have to put so much force behind the tool. I'll see if Eorlund'll make you one."

Ulfberth shook his head lightly. "Eoric, you don't need to do that. I'll go see him myself, you already taught me most of this."

The Dragonborn's face suddenly dropped, his voice losing its jovial tone. "If I'd been quicker, you wouldn't have to do this yourself."

"Hey!" Ulfberth said, punching Eoric hard in the shoulder, his work-gloves taking most of the pain of striking the shoulder-guard. "I'll have none of that! That damned dragon came out of nowhere. You damn near killed that horse of yours riding in from the tundra after it." The smith sighed deeply. "Adrianne was a good woman, but what happens happens."

"Aye," Eoric said, sighing as well. "I suppose you're right."

"Yes, I am. You're too hard on yourself sometimes." Then Ulfberth gave a wry smile and put a hand on the blonde man's shoulder. "And hey, you did help me get through it."

"Indeed." Eoric said, rolling his eyes. "One of my better ideas. How is Lydia?"

"She's grand, Eoric. She's grand." Ulfberth replied, dropping his hand and crossing his arms over his shoulder. "She's off hunting right now."

"In her condition?" Eoric asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You know her." Ulfberth answered. "Never one to slow down. And the priests say the little one won't be along till the start of next summer."

"Well give her my regards." Eoric said, shifting the strap on his greatsword's scabbard. "I best be off."

"I was about to ask you." Ulfberth said, raising his brows towards Eoric's armored appearance. "Why are you armored up, and who's the lad?"

That snapped Hakon out of the slight daze he'd been in, not really wanting to intrude on what was obviously a personal discussion. "I'm Hakon."

Before Ulfberth could ask the question, Eoric cut him off. "He's traveling with me."

That seemed to catch Ulfberth's attention. He looked at Eoric seriously then, his voice grave. "Like in the old days?" He well knew what Eoric's 'travels' entailed. Being married to his former housecarl meant he had first-hand accounts of them.

"Aye."

Ulfberth raised his eyebrows. "Well good luck." He extended his hand. "Fight well."

Eoric grasped the smith's wrist. "And good luck with the youngling. Trust me, they're a whole different kind of battle."

Releasing the wrist-clasp, Eoric nodded Ulfberth goodbye and then, turning on his heel, walked away, Hakon following on behind him. They walked briskly, heading up the street directly the opposite the smithy, into what Hakon was told off-handedly by Eoric was the district of the city known as the Wind District. Here the houses were of the highest quality, what Hakon assumed were the great clan houses and the like. However, as he turned a corner, he could do nothing else but stop and stare.

Before him, blooming in radiance even in the depths of winter, was the Gildergreen. Born from the branches of the oldest tree in Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, it was massive, its branches stretching across the entire decorated courtyard that it was growing in. All sound seemed to fade as he beheld it, save for the wind that blew through its branches, causing a rustling that was almost peaceful in its sound. This was a old tree, from the days long ago, before war and dragons and the breaking of the Empire. He couldn't help but feel in awe of something that was so ancient, but still here, growing strong.

"You alright lad?" Eoric asked, looking down at his younger companion.

"Yes." The reply came out almost as a breath.

"It is magnificent, I have to say." Eoric said, before really _looking_ at the tree since he'd first arrived in Whiterun half a decade ago. After a few moments, he patted the young man on the back. "Come on, Hakon, we have things to do."

Walking forward, the sounds of the hold capital returning, Hakon and Eoric headed towards the steps that led up to the massive hall of Dragonsreach, where years ago Eoric had trapped the dragon Odahviing . On their right, built from one of the ships that had carried their ancestors from freezing Atmora, was the mead hall of Jorrvaskr, stronghold of the Companions, who were flourishing under a new Harbinger. Before they could start climbing up the carved stone steps that led up to the hall, Hakon spoke up.

"Would you mind if I stayed behind?" He asked, coming to a stop.

"Huh?" Eoric asked, looking down from the first step.

"I was just wondering if I could stay here, while you go talk to the Jarl."

Eoric smiled then, seeing the evident wonder and interest on the younger man's face at the physical history that surrounded him. "Alright lad. You stay here. Just don't get into any trouble while I'm gone, alright?"

"You have my word."

"Good." Eoric said, nodding. He then began walking up towards Dragonsreach, but stopped soon enough to turn around. "But don't think Heimskir over there," He said, pointing over at the rather bedraggled looking priest standing under a decorated wooden arch before a large statue of Talos slaying a great serpent, who was engaged in what seemed to be half sermon and half rant. "Will shut up anytime soon."

With a nod of understanding, Hakon watched as Eoric turned back around and continued heading up to the Jarl's palace.

* * *

Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun, sat upon his throne within his great hall. To his right was his younger brother, Hrongar, and Irileth, his loyal housecarl of many years whilst his court wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire was probably leafing through some tome or other in his private study and his children playing on the great porch. To his left stood his relatively new steward, a rather thin faced, bookish man by the name of Brill His old steward, Proventus Avenicci, had left Skyrim after the loss of his daughter, returning to his native Cyrodill. But the man, Brill, was not without the necessary acumen: he'd served under Vignar Grey-Mane during his rulership of Whiterun, after he'd been toppled during the Civil War.

That day still burned in his memory and seeing no other apparent business he let his mind wander:

For so long after Ulfric Stormcloak had raised his banners in rebellion against the Empire he'd tried to keep Whiterun out of it, trying to keep a balance: he'd let Heimskir preach the word of Talos, but had not declared openly against the Empire and their acceptance of the damned White-Gold Concordat. That had all changed the day Ulfric's messenger arrived, clad head to toe in steel plate. His silent, armored ultimatum had been one of the oldest there could be: keep the proffered axe and throw his lot in with Ulfric and the other rebel Jarls or send the messenger back with it and stand by the Empire.

Long he'd deliberated, pacing back and forth, as Hrongar and Avenicci had tried to counsel him as they had done so often before, whilst Ulfric's messenger had simply knelt unmoving with head bowed and the axe held forward in two open palms. But in the end it had been his decision to make. And in the end, his conscience had shown him the way. He had closed the man's gauntleted fingers over the haft of the axe. He, and Whiterun, would stand by the Empire that Nordic swords had forged and kept for years beyond counting.

Within days the Stormcloaks had besieged the city, striking hard and fast just as the Empire's reinforcements had finished building their barricades. And at their head, that same plated warrior. He had seen him during the battle, ever at the forefront of the fight, swinging a greatsword with deadly skill. Eventually he, as well as Ulfric's right hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, had been the first to break into the hall within which he now sat.

And so it had gone, him retreating with his family to Solitude, to seek refuge with the Imperials in the Blue Palace. Until the Stormcloaks had come to Solitude for the final strike at the Imperial power in Skyrim. He could see it still, his old Thane, Eoric Greystone, who had been off fighting dragons during the Stormcloak siege of Whiterun, leading the Stormcloak charge on Castle Dour alongside Ulfric. That had come as a surprise, though not much of one. The Dragonborn had always kept strongly to honor, the Nordic traditions and had always held Talos close to his heart.

The real surprise was a few years later when, Vignar Grey-Mane having succumbed to the weight of his years, he was summoned before the High King. At first he had finally thought Ulfric had meant to finish what he'd started when he'd attacked Whiterun and have his head. But when the guards had opened the doors to the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm, he had been confronted not by an execution, but a coronation. Eoric had stood at King Ulfric's left hand, a sad smile playing across his strong features. It turned out his loyalty had not ended and he had argued for his reinstatement and, more impressively, won.

And so he'd said the words: to uphold the law, dispense justice, arm and train men for the Royal Army and to keep his oaths of fealty. And once again he was Jarl of Whiterun. But Eoric was not his Thane. After the Civil War he had declined Vignar's offer of reinstatement and after the ceremony he had taken him aside and made him the same offer. Eoric's revelation that he had been the armored figure that had laid his city low had stung him like the bite of an axe. But as the years rolled on that sting had lessened; at first anger had roiled inside him at Eoric's betrayal and in that anger he had told both Irileth and Hrongar however as time passed he allowed himself to see it from Eoric's side, the impossible position he had been in. He understood the Dragonborn's choice and while Hrongar, as the dutiful younger brother he was, had accepted his decision and opinion as the one to be had, Irileth had stayed as outraged as she'd ever been. But maybe it was fitting, he'd thought to himself, after all the first time she'd seen him she'd drawn her sword on him.

Dragging his mind back to the present, he waited for another of his people to come to him for justice or aid or a relief from tax, he was beginning to think of leaving court to take his noonday meal. But at that moment the great doors of his hall swung open and in walked Eoric Greystone, for it could be no other, clad as he was in wolfskin cloak, armor and with that black greatsword slung over his shoulder.

Immediately Irileth stepped forward, hand falling to the hilt of her longsword. She had said once he had told her of Eoric's actions during the war that she would put that sword straight through 'that damned traitor's' throat if she got the chance. He sincerely hoped that she wasn't going to try to make good on that oath now, because while he knew from first-hand experience what a terror Irileth could be on the battlefield it was highly unlikely that she would be able to defeat the Dragonborn in open combat.

Thankfully she did not. Instead she merely glared at the armored Nord, before following him closely as he strode up the hall. Her hand never left the hilt of her sword, the knuckles turning pale as she squeezed it tightly.

"Jarl Balgruuf." The Dragonborn said, dropping to one knee before the set of steps that let up to the dais upon which his throne stood. He could not help but smile at that, for all the fact that he was the Hero of Skyrim, born with the soul of a dragon and sent unto the world by Akatosh himself, Eoric'd always observed the dignities when he came to him.

"Rise, Dragonborn. Rise." He said, drawing himself up in his throne as Eoric stood. "What brings you to Dragonsreach?" He noticed out of the corner of his eye that upon hearing the word 'Dragonborn' Farengar had stuck his head out of his study, before retreating back inside it.

"I need information." Eoric said, his voice strong and clear. It echoed through the rafters of the hall. "About the attacks that have been hitting supply caravans heady to Royal Army forts. I was told there was one in the Hold"

"Ah yes, the attacks." Balgruuf replied, sighing deeply. "A bad business. Men slaughtered, supplies seized. My Captain of The Guard was heading up the investigation personally before the trail went cold. I'll send him to you, so he can tell you what you need."

"Thank you, milord. I'll be waiting at the Bannered Mare." Eoric said, for it was now past midday and he had not yet eaten or had a drink.

"Very well." Balgruuf nodded, giving a glance at Brill, who promptly wrote down a message on a piece of parchment and handed it to one of the guards that stood by at the sides of the hall. As the man sped off to find his captain, he turned back to the warrior before him. "Gods watch over you Dragonborn."

"And you, Jarl Balgruuf." Eoric replied, before turning and walking away.

As he drew up alongside Irileth. He looked down at where her hand gripped the hilt of her sword and then up at her angry glare. For but a moment he stood still, his grey eyes matching her red, before finally turning away and striding out of the hall.

* * *

Exiting into the pale winter sun, Eoric stood for a moment at the top of the stairs down to the Wind District and exhaled deeply. Though the visit had proved fruitful it had still been hard. Though he knew that Balgruuf had forgiven him for the role he'd played in the rebellion, it was still hard to face him, knowing he'd betrayed him. And the hate blazing in Irileth's red eyes had been tough to to bear. They had fought together at the Western Watchtower where he had slain Mirmulnir and realized his destiny and now she hated him. He couldn't blame her. He would too in her position.

Casting those thoughts away with a shake of his head he exhaled once again and made his way briskly down the steps of Dragonsreach. He found Hakon right where he had left him, sitting against the Gildergreen, his eyes closed with a look of utter peace on his features. Despite only knowing him for about a day, Eoric had a good feeling about the lad. There was no malevolence about him, only the occasional hot-headedness of youth. Walking up next to Hakon, he prodded the youth in the side with his armored boot, not hard but with enough force to jolt him from his rest. As his eyes flared open, Eoric noticed with a grin that his hand went to the dagger at his side. His teachers had instructed him well.

"Come on lad." He said, as Hakon realized who had nudged him. He offered him a helping had.

"So what now?" The younger man asked as he took the proffered hand and pulled himself up. "Are we off to Riften?"

"Not yet. The Jarl's sending the Captain of the Guard to meet me, he was the one who investigated the attack that Isengrim told us of." He then smirked slightly. "But first a drink, eh?"

That brought a smile full of teeth to Hakon's face. "Lead on, Dragonborn."

* * *

Less than a minute's walk brought them inside the Bannered Mare. The inn was bustling with others going there for their midday meal; stable-hands, woodcutters, Belethor from the general goods shop, even a few guards here and there, hopefully off-duty, all were there. Some of the tavern's patrons looked up at the door as they entered, before returning to their food and drink, or to listening to Jon Battle-Born's stirring rendition of 'Ragnar the Red'. As Eoric had told Hakon, they didn't see The Dragonborn, all they saw was another member of the Companions, and who can really keep track of all of them, heading down to the tavern.

Despite the crowd, Eoric was able to locate a table. Threading their way through the other patrons, they were able to claim a smallish table with two chairs in the corner. Eoric took the seat right in the corner, reversing the chair and sitting astride it. Hakon rose a quizzical eyebrow at that, he had seen many of the guards in Northpoint do the exact same thing, but did not speak on the issue.

A few moments passed in silence as they settled in and confirmed their ownership of their table to anybody looking for one, before Eoric stood up again, leaving his greatsword leaning against his chair with his cloak thrown over it, though Hakon knew he still had his heavy seax knife strapped to his side.

"What drink do you want?" He said as he moved past the younger man.

"Uh," Hakon took a minute to decide before looking up again. "A jug of small ale, thanks."

"Got it." Eoric said, before diving back into the throng.

More than a few minutes later, Eoric returned with two leather covered mugs in one hand two jugs in another. Setting them down carefully, he passed a mug and the jug of small ale to Hakon, whilst he took up his own and sat down. Judging from the smell, Hakon deduced that the contents of the other jug was mead.

"I ordered some food as well," Eoric said as he sat down. "Should be along soon." Hakon nodded in reply.

Pouring themselves their drinks, they gave a toast silently before both started drinking. Whilst Hakon took a large draught of his small ale, Eoric downed his mug completely. As he was refilling it, a voice called out to him.

"Hey, you always been that ugly?"

Looking up, Eoric's face broke open with a large grin. Surging to his feet, he walked towards the speaker. Looking over his shoulder, Hakon looked at the man who would insult a fully armored warrior.

He was a strong looking man, who could for the life of him be Eoric's brother, such a likeness did they share. He was tall, though not as tall as the Dragonborn, and had long golden hair that hung loose save for a single thick braid. He was bearded, though in a thinner style than Eoric. What perhaps marked him most was a large sunken scar running down from his right eye, which slightly dragged the skin of his lower eyelid with it. He was garbed in the scaled armor of the Whiterun Hold Guards, with a pair of bronze pauldrons marking his rank as Captain. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some of the guards in the inn quickly make for the exit. Evidently they hadn't been off-duty.

Striding towards him, Eoric opened his arms. "Ralof!" He said, grasping the mans arm in a wrist-clasp.

"Good to see you again Eoric." The Guard Captain replied, putting his hand over the clasp and shaking it.

"Come sit." Eoric said, releasing the wrist-clasp and gesturing towards the table. As they moved towards the table, Ralof grabbed a free chair and took it with him. Pulling it to the table, he too reversed it and sat astride it. Again Hakon said nothing.

"Ralof," Eoric said, sitting back down. "This is Hakon, he's traveling with me."

"Well met, kinsman." Ralof, offering the younger man a wrist-clasp, which was taken. He looked hard at the lad before him. "You seem familiar to me. Have we met?"

Hakon was taken aback. "I do not think so."

Eoric looked at his long time friend and fellow veteran. "He's Rayner's son." He said, voice heavy as his mind briefly flashed back to the bloody siege of Fort Dunstad.

"By the gods." Ralof breathed out. "That's what it is. You're your father's image lad."

Eoric supposed that was true, the lad did indeed look like the man who had held Fort Dunstad, though obviously younger and clean-shaven. His face had his father's strength, but also a softness to it. He was actually quite handsome for his age, a fact confirmed when the new serving girl who brought them the platter of meats and cheeses he had ordered, Nessa if he'd heard Hulda correctly, gave him smile and quick wink.

As Nessa departed Ralof clamped a hand to the lad's shoulder. "You're father was my friend." He said, his voice heavy and full of conviction. "I am yours."

Hakon bowed his head. "Thank you."

Then Ralof cracked that easy-going smile knew well. "No problem." Still grinning, he picked up a slice of peppered beef and started chewing at it. "So the Jarl tells me you two are going after whoever's hitting the army supply lines."

"Indeed." Eoric said, biting into a small wedge of cheese. It was good, tangy and full of flavor. "You had one a few weeks back?"

"Aye. Just over two weeks back. We figure they got hit just as they were about to make camp." Ralof replied. Then, as he thought back on the scene his voice grew low. "It was a damned mess, Eoric. The guards didn't stand a chance. The roadstones were covered in blood. They'd taken the supplies, but killed the horses and fired the wagons."

"So you're thinking bandits?" Eoric said, taking a swig of mead.

Ralof shook his head gravely. "No 'ric. It wasn't bandits. The guards were too hacked up, I've seen the aftermath of a Orcish berserker rage and it was worse than that. And some of the bodies had been," Ralof's face twisted into a grimace. "bitten, ripped up. One guard had had his throat torn out."

"Animals coming around after they were dead?" Hakon asked.

"No. The amount of blood was wrong. They were still alive when it happened."

Eoric's brow furrowed. "Any chance they were using war dogs?"

"I don't know, the tracks were snowed over by the time we got there. But I doubt it, the bite marks were wrong. Too jagged."

"Anything else?" The Dragonborn asked, finishing off his jug of mead.

"Aye. It was the strangest thing. Despite the carnage, there was no sign of the attackers themselves. No discarded weapons, no dead, we even found arrow wounds that they'd taken the damned arrows from. It was like ghosts had hit them."

"So what _do_ you think then?" Eoric asked, while they all idly picked at the food. All of them had grim expressions as they started conjuring up worst case scenarios, their imaginations working overtime to find the most horrific possibilities.

"Eoric, I honestly don't know." Ralof said. He then looked at the Dragonborn from underneath his brow. "But whatever it is, it's bad. But if there's anybody who can stop it, I'd wager on it being you."

Eoric nodded in appreciation. "Thanks Ralof."

"No problem, old friend." Ralof answered, before immediately brightening up. "Speaking of old friends, guess who else is here?"

Eoric raised an eyebrow "No idea, who?"

"Thorek." Ralof supplied, a grin on his face.

"Is he now?" Eoric said, grinning and stroking his beard.

"Sorry," Hakon interjected. "Who's Thorek?"

"A wandering warrior we ran into during the war." Eoric answered. "Supposedly he's been all over Tamriel. He's a good man, handy with a blade as well. Where is he, Ralof?"

"Up at Jorrvaskr." The Guard Captain answered.

"He's not joining The Companions, is he?" Eoric was incredulous.

"Nah," Ralof said, waving a hand. "I think he's just testing himself."

"Well," Eoric said, standing up whilst Hakon drained the last of his small ale. "I guess I might as well pay him a visit. I need to speak to Eorlund anyway."

"And I need to get back on patrol. I need to break some heads as well, damned milk-drinkers being here on duty." Ralof stood as well, and embraced the Dragonborn. "Stay safe, 'ric. Talos watch over you."

"And you, old friend."

Moments after the Guard Captain left, Eoric and Hakon finished the last of their food and left the Bannered Mare. Taking a right they headed back up the hill Whiterun was built upon and headed straight for the hall of the Companions.

* * *

Jorrvaskr, Mead Hall of The Companion, was a true marvel, Hakon thought as they entered through the large double doors. Made from one of the very longships that had carried part of Ysgramor's original Five-Hundred Companions during The Return. A great fire trench filled the center of the hall, ringed by a long table. Here and there he saw weapons hung from brackets, some new, some very ancient indeed. It was unchanged in its design since it was first raised, thousands of years ago.

As they walked in they were greeted, not by a Companion but by an old, homely woman who looked like somebody's favorite grandmother.

"Eoric!" She said, her voice warm and kind. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too Tilma." Eoric responded, with a broad smile. He then looked around and saw that they were totally alone in the great hall. "Where is everybody?"

"In the rear yard dear," Tilma answered. "A grey-haired man walked in and challenged anyone who wanted to fight him. Even put up his coin pouch as a prize."

"I imagine that went down well." Eoric said, smirking slightly. He then turned to Hakon. "Come on lad. You won't want to miss this."

Passing through the main hall, the pair of travelers then opened the back doors of the building, exiting into the rear training yard. They were immediately confronted by a great ring of warriors, circling a pair of fighting men, dueling with real weapons. The Companions had swelled in number since Eoric's time among them. Where before they had numbered not even twenty, they now stood with the strength of nearly a hundred men and women of all races, though not all were present as they were off pursuing contracts handed to them by the Circle. None challenged Eoric's and Hakon's arrival, as the few who turned around from the action before them saw that Eoric bore the Armor of The Wolf, a symbol of great honor and leadership amongst them. And whilst the citizens of Skyrim might only guess at Eoric's identity, all the assembled Companions knew who he was.

Moving through the ring of warriors, most of whom stepped away to allow them passage, Eoric and Hakon made their way to the front, so as to better see the fighters before them. Hakon took note that the man Eoric stood next to was clad in the same armor as he was, heavy plate bearing lupine motifs. He was tall, dark of hair and with a serious expression on his face.

"Eoric." The man said with a low, gravely voice, not taking his eyes of the dueling men in the centre.

"Vilkas." Eoric replied, before cocking an eyebrow. "Or should I say Harbinger?"

The man called Vilkas snorted. "Call me what you wish, you did name me your successor after all."

"I did."

"You know you were the third Harbinger ever to step down?" Vilkas asked.

"Yes." Eoric grunted. "You never cease in telling me." He cast a quick glance around the assembled Companions. "Where's Farkas and Aela?"

"Off on a task. Some fool of a fisherman up near Dawnstar came back to his hut only to find it overrun with Ice-Wraiths. They should be back in a day or so."

"And Eorlund? I need to speak with him."

"Up at the Skyforge, as always." The Companion's Harbinger jerked his head towards where, standing upon an outcrop of rock crowned by a magnificent carving of some great bird, a heavily muscled white-haired man with a hard face stood looking down at the fight below him.

Continuing to only half listen to their conversation, Hakon looked at the two men fighting within the ring of Companions.

The one that instantly drew his attention was a giant of a man, a mountain of muscle; thick bearded and with a mane of dark brown hair. Wearing armor of dark leather studded with steel, he was swinging a massive steel battleaxe like it was nothing. His style was all out aggression, with great swooping strikes that he used to keep his opponent at bay. Each blow was accompanied with an almost feral roar.

His opponent, Hakon deduced, was the one called Thorek. He was stocky and though not small he was dwarfed by his opponent. He was clad in a set of heavy armor, thick black iron with a helmet of the same material that was not full faced but only had protection for his nose and eyes, as well as a skirt of studded black leather strips at the back to protect his neck. That allowed Hakon to see that he was indeed grey haired as a thick beard covered his jaw and hung to halfway down his neck. In his hands was a targe of thick dark oak with a boss and ridge of polished metal as well as a longsword, thick fullered with a blade of silver steel and a hilt of either polished brass or bronze. Despite his heavier armament he moved quickly, seemingly unwilling to take even one of the larger warrior's blows.

"Who's the axeman?" Hakon heard Eoric say to the man beside him.

"Jorak." Came the reply. "From Falkreath. After bandits fired his homestead he decided he was better at hewing men than trees. Came to us just after your last visit, about a year ago."

"Bit aggressive, isn't he?" The Dragonborn asked as the axeman executed a vicious overhand strike that struck sparks as it rebounded off the cobbles. "Reminds me of someone I used to know."

"I wasn't that bad, Eoric."

"True, and you've learnt well to temper your anger with wisdom, and patience." There was a slight clang as gauntleted hand hit shoulder guard. "The old man would be proud of you."

"I had a good teacher." Came the Harbinger's reply. "Besides, Jorak isn't usually like this. But the old man's been baiting him for a while."

"How long?" Eoric asked.

"It's only to first blood or a simulated kill, but they've been at it for nearly a quarter of an hour."

"That long?" Eoric sounded incredulous.

"Aye. All the other fights he dealt with within moments. The greybeard's good Eoric. But he seems to be stringing this one out. I've seen more than a dozen times he could have ended it."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eoric nod, still watching as the swordsman ducked under another blow that would probably have taken his head off if it had actually connected, only to leap backwards on the balls of his feet instead of attacking.

"If he's not careful Thorek might end up goading the man into killing him."

The man called Vilkas actually looked away to address Eoric. This time it was his turn to sound incredulous. "You know him?"

"I do." Eoric responded. "His name's Thorek Longstrider. He's a wanderer, seeks out challenge where he can find it. I met him during the Rebellion. He's fought all over Tamriel."

"Old soldier?"

"I don't think so. We only knew each other a couple of days."

Finally the match came to an end. As Jorak the Axeman swung his weapon back for an overhead blow, Thorek rushed forward. He rammed the rim of his shield into the giant's stomach, driving the wind from his lungs and as he crumpled he again struck his shield-rim into the axeman's right knee and as Jorak fell, his axe falling from his fingers, onto his hands and knees, he struck downwards with his sword. Had he not twisted the blade in mid-air, Thorek would've taken the dark-haired axeman's head clean off. Instead his sword simply lay flat against Jorak's neck. He then simply stepped back and returned it to his scabbard.

Doffing his helmet and running a gauntleted hand through his long, sweat drenched, grey hair than rain from a high widow's peak to his shoulders, he turned to the assembled fighters.

"Is there no one else?" He asked in an almost mocking tone. He turned to another part of the ring. "Is there no one else?"

He then turned to look directly at where Vilkas, Eoric and Hakon stood and Hakon saw that his eyes were not rheumy or otherwise affected by his age. No they shone with untapped strength, as blue and as cold as ice. They immediately snapped onto where Eoric stood, returning the stare. But before either man could speak, the giant stirred from the ground.

Pushing himself to his feet, Jorak gripped one hand around the haft of his mighty axe. His eyes burned beneath his heavy brows. He stalked towards the older fighter and towered over him. At that moment Hakon saw Eoric's right hand vanish beneath his wolfskin cloak, curling around the hilt of his seax knife. By his side Vilkas began to take a step forward, not willing to see blood spilt that day.

And then the axeman laughed.

A deep, roaring laugh that echoed around the practice yard.

Tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, he exhaled and clapped one meaty hand to the old man's shoulder.

"You fight well, greybeard." With a voice as loud as his laugh. "I've not had such a good fight in months. You're one of the finest swordsmen I've ever seen."

"You're not so bad yourself, axeman. Just keep that temper in check." Thorek replied, nodding slightly at the compliment. With that they separated, the axeman heading inside for probably a whole cask of mead whilst the rest of the Companions, seeing no other challenger forthcoming, dispersed to do their own thing; Vilkas too departed, with a nod of farewell. As for Thorek, he returned his gaze to Eoric and strode towards him.

"Good to see you again, Eoric." He said, offering a wristclasp.

"You remember me?" Eoric asked, returning it with a grip of iron.

"Hard to forget the man who roars at reality and makes it obey him." The older man replied with a smirk. "Besides, I hear your name out of the mouths of bards nearly every day. _The Tale of The Dragonborn. _Stirring stuff."

"They make most of it up." Eoric said, shrugging slightly.

"Oh I doubt that." Thorek answered, releasing himself from the wristclasp. His blue eyes then fell on Hakon, who was stood at Eoric's side. "And who's this?"

"I am Hakon, sir." Hakon replied, bowing his head quickly in greeting.

"A good name, strong name." The old man said, before he turned back to Eoric and nodded at his armor. "Now tell me lad, what are you about? From what I heard you retired from the fight to be a smith."

"I'm hunting down whatever it is that's been hitting the supply caravans to the army."

"I heard about those." Thorek said, sighing. "Terrible news." The old warrior then raised an eyebrow. "Don't suppose you need another blade, do you?"

Eoric's brow furrowed then. If what was going on was as bad as Ralof said, and Ralof wasn't given to lies or even exaggeration, then perhaps it would be a good idea to have some extra help. And Thorek was a fine fighter with a wealth of experience. After once again considering things like logistics and such, he spoke. "I'd be honored Thorek."

"As am I, Dragonborn" He said, a gleam in his eye.

"You'll need a horse." Eoric said. "Time's of the essence."

"She's resting at the stables." Thorek stated, to which Eoric raised an eyebrow. "Just because I'm called _Longstrider_ doesn't mean I never ride a damned horse Eoric."

"Fair enough." Eoric said with a light chuckle. "Get what gear you have and meet me by the city gate. I've got a little business left to deal with."

"As you say, I'll be there." Thorek agreed, nodding farewell before turning on his heel and walking away.

"Hakon, go with him. I won't be long." Eoric said, turning to the young man.

"Very well." The young man said, before hurrying off after the retreating armored figure.

* * *

A few minutes later, Eoric was walking through the Wind District towards the main gate, wrapped in his great wolfskin cloak. He'd spoken to old Eorlund, who for all his advancing years was still as strong and knowledgeable as ever. He'd told him what tools Ulfberth needed and payed for them out of his own coin purse, despite Ulfberth having told him not to. Eorlund would give them to him when he inevitably came calling. Now, with that task done, he had one last thing to do. But first he had to find the person who could help him. He knew he haunted the Wind District, but where he was in it changed from day to day.

After a few moments he spotted him, leaning against the western wall of the Hall of the Dead. He was a Bosmer, short like most of his race, and dressed in a set of leather armor that contained many secret pockets and pouches. His black hair was pulled back into a high not and his eyes were the color of dark forest soil. He had a shortbow of what looked to be elm slung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows strapped to his side.

Spotting the heavily armored warrior approaching him, he turned to walk away but Eoric darted forward with speed rarely seen in men in full plate and snaked a hand around his collar. Dragging him backwards, he slammed him back into the wall of the Hall of The Dead and pinned him there with one large forearm. The Bosmer's hand dropped to the small of his back where he undoubtedly had a concealed dagger but Eoric fixed him with such a stare that his blood turned to ice and stayed his hand.

"I know who you are, thief." He said, with a voice as threatening as a storm coming down from the high mountains. "I know who you work for."

"W-what do you want?" The thief stammered, confronted as he was by someone who was taller, stronger, well armed and many times more dangerous than he was.

Eoric lent in close and whispered in one of the elf's pointed ears. "Tell Cyrus that I'm coming to Riften. Tell him I need him to find out what he can about attacks on army supply wagons. He's to use whatever ways are available." He let that sink in for a moment, before speaking again. "Understand?"

"Y-yes. I got it." The Bosmer replied hoarsely.

"Good." Eoric stated, before releasing the thief. "Go."

Within a heartbeat the thief had sped off, rushing down the streets of the Wind District. At last ready to leave, Eoric turned and made his way to the main gate, where Hakon and Thorek stood making small talk. Ready to set off, the trio said farewell to Whiterun and stepped out into the wilds of Skyrim.

* * *

A few hours later the travelers were winding their way up the roads that led into the hills above Whiterun Hold. Thorek, riding a great black stallion, was telling Hakon stories whilst Eoric rode a bit ahead, his grey eyes watching the trail, before every so often twisting in his saddle to look at the road behind them. Thorek had just gotten started talking about a bandit chief he'd taken on during his travels in southern Cyrodiil.

"Urak gro-Kharz." He said, taking a swing from a small skin of water. "Now he was a vicious one. Nearly seven and half feet tall. He was an albino, which the Orcs see as a terrible sign; a sign that they've been cursed by Malacath. By the time he was ten his tribe could bear him no more, but when they tried to murder him he instead killed them all. Barricaded them in the longhouse and set it ablaze."

"He burned them alive?" Hakon asked, lip curling slightly in disgust.

"Aye lad, he did. Some said that he acutally wasn't an albino and that his skin was pale with the ash of his dead tribe. But no matter what that day was the start of his love of fire. He burned men that disobeyed him, farmers that couldn't pay protection money, travelers on the road that just took his fancy. Anybody really."

"Gods above." Hakon cursed.

"I think they didn't have much to say on the matter. But eventually the Count of Leyawiin sent out riders, the Knights of White Stallion, to kill him. He nailed their burned heads to the road leading from Leyawiin's main gate, their shields at the foot of the spikes. Hearing of this I traveled south and sought him out. Every night, I'd sneak up to his camp and take out one of his sentries. Just one, every night. Every morning they'd wake up and find another dead body. Eventually the bandits grew more fearful of this 'night stalker' than they were of Urak and they began to bleed away, until he was alone." Thorek took a deep breath. "The last night Urak stood alone in the clearing he'd made camp in, dressed head to toe in Orichalum armor, illuminated by a great blazing fire. He called out into the black forest around him, bellowing at me to come face him."

"What did you do?" From his tone Hakon was obviously fully engaged in the story.

"I strode from the forest, sword alive with the light of the fire. I stood before him and told him my name. He promised me that I would die a slow death for what I had done. For hours we dueled, he fought with all the fury of a Daedra, using war axe and shield. Five times he drove his axe passed my defenses, five times my sword tasted his blood until at last, the spears of first sunlight shining through the trees, I knocked his shield from his hand and buried my sword in his black heart. I burned his body on that blaze, save for his head. That _I_ staked before the gates of Leyawiin."

Hakon was about to reply when he heard Eoric rein in and dismount. At first he thought he was probably stopping to relieve himself, but then he drew his greatsword from where it was strapped to his saddle and took off his wolfskin cloak, throwing it back over his horse. Beside him Thorek did as well, donning his helm before drawing his sword sword and taking his shield from where it was slung behind his back, over his traveling cloak. As the older man dismounted, he motioned for him to do the same.

Doing so, Hakon drew his war axe and dagger and held them tightly in his hands. He and Thorek moved up alongside Eoric, who was knelt upon the ground.

"What is it?" Hakon asked, as Eoric mouthed something to himself. "Eoric?"

"We're near to the Valtheim Towers." He said, keeping his voice low. At that answer Thorek nodded his head in agreement.

"What are they?" Hakon asked, though he was educated, he did not know every place in Skyrim.

"Old defenses." Eoric answered. "Built by our ancestors to guard the Gap of Whiterun. Now it's used by bandits to prey on the eastern road." He looked at the younger man. "You ready?"

Hakon took a moment to answer that question, he could feel his pumping in his chest, the blood rushing past his temples. Taking a deep breath, he made an effort to calm himself. Then, he looked The Dragonborn in the eye.

"Yes." He said, firmly.

"Then lets take them."

All three Nords raced around the bend in the road that hid them from the tower's view, each of them bellowing a war-cry. Whilst Hakon's was just an inarticulate scream and Thorek's a deep, throaty roar, Eoric seemed to be yelling actual words, but nothing that Hakon could understand.

"_Hon wruth nah!__**" **_He bellowed as he ran, and Hakon noticed an unnatural shimmer course across the black metal of the sword, almost as if in to response to the words.

But after closing the gap until they were almost at the doors of one of the two towers that stood as silent sentinels, spanning the roiling waters of the White River as it sped towards the Sea of Ghosts, they noticed something was wrong. There were no calls of alarm from bandits taken by surprise, no arrows striking down from archers on the bridge spanning the river. Nothing.

Dropping one hand from his greatsword, the Dragonborn surveyed the towers, casting his gaze over them. Walking up beside him, Thorek too looked up at the ancient structures.

"It seems nobody's home." He said gruffly. Eoric only grunted in response.

"That's good isn't it?" Hakon asked, thinking of threading his war axe back into the loop on his belt.

"No." Eoric said, which checked that thought. "This place is one of the most defensible, most profitable bandit hideouts in Skyrim. There are _always _bandits here."

Thorek moved forward, shield held before him. "Then let's see where they've gone."

With a nod, Eoric moved up behind him, greatsword in hand. Hakon following on afterwards, axe raised above his head. Moving together, the made their way up to where the narrow stone bridge that spanned the river. Stepping to the side, Eoric jerked his head upwards up the rest of the tower that they hadn't searched.

"You two check the rest of the tower, I'll check the other one." He said, pointing across the bridge.

"Got it, Eoric." Thorek said, before nodding at Hakon to follow him.

They took up position on opposite sides of the door, before moving in at once whilst behind them Eoric made his way quickly across the stone bridge. Inside there seemed to be signs of habitation. A table and benches lay across on the far side of the room, as well as a smaller table that from the smell had been used to prepare all sorts of alchemical concoctions like poisons and healing poultices, the run off of which still lay upon it in wet pools. The ashes of a fire, already cold as stone, lay in the surprisingly intact hearth. All the evidence to the idea that the bandits had left recently, but did not intend to return.

Saying nothing, Thorek and Hakon climbed the stairs two abreast and then entered the highest room. This had obviously been the leader's private chambers as there was a large double bed that wouldn't have looked out of place in a high-end inn in Solitude, as well as a large wardrobe set up just across from it and a writing desk by it's side. Looking over at the desk, Hakon noticed a note laying upon it, fixed there by the blade of an iron dagger.

Approaching the desk, Thorek looked down at it.

"How original." He said, wrenching the dagger out of the wood and reading what was written on the parchment.

"_Arvas, Briana,_

_You two were out hunting but we couldn't wait. Some fool's been hitting army caravans so we're getting out of here before the Jarl thinks we're behind it and sends the Cavalry after us. We're heading south, into the forests overlooking the geyser fields by the Darkwater river. Find us there._

_Gerich" _

Looking up from the page, Thorek looked over at Hakon.

"Eoric should see this." he said, handing it to the young man, who read as they moved back down the stairs, before handing it back to Thorek.

Crossing over the narrow bridge, Hakon willing himself not to look down as they walked over the raging waters beneath them, they made their way to the other tower, which, though shorter, was built into the mountainside. Walking up one of the wooden walkways, they found Eoric standing in the doorway to the final room, looking inside.

"Eoric," Thorek said, moving up the stairs. "The bandits have left, not long ago, but two hunters should be returning."

"I know." Eoric said with an empty tone as they drew up next to him, Thorek handing over the letter. "I found them."

The sight in the room before them made Hakon turn away and start retching. He had never seen a dead body before and those bodies should not have been the ones to be the first. As Eoric looked down to read the letter, Thorek took a look at the bodies. They were of a male Dunmer and a Redguard female. They had been stripped and hung from the rafters of the tower by lengths of rope passed straight through their ankles, judging from the blood around the wounds that had been done whilst they were still alive.

Then the true evil had begun. Jagged cuts, carved lightly in some places and others deep, criss-crossed their bodies. Stab wounds were prevalent around the joints at the knees, elbows and shoulders, inflicted to deal the largest amount of pain without causing the person to bleed out. The Dunmer had been gelded, the area around his groin a ragged mess of blood and torn tissue, the amount of gore and blood once again showing it was done before death. But, judging from the numeracy and imprecision of the wounds, this was not done for information, but rather for sick and sadistic pleasure.

"The raiders went south." Eoric said, before turning around to look at his companions. Immediately his gaze fell upon Hakon, who was still retching off the side of the walkway. "Hakon, are you alright?" He asked, stepping forward, concern heavy in his voice.

"I'm fine." The young man said, holding out a hand to stop any attempt at aid, before taking a deep breath and drawing himself to his full height. "I'm fine."

"You were saying, Eoric?" Thorek asked, patting Hakon lightly on his back. At least the first kill he'd seen had been clean.

"The brigands have fled south. Right where we are going." Smiling, he brought up his black greatsword to rest upon his right shoulder. In his grey eyes burned a sense of fierce determination. "Gentlemen, let's hunt some bandits."

Together the companions ran from the towers, putting what they had seen behind them for the time being. Mounting their horses, they spurred them on, following the road south.

The bandits they tracked would soon regret the message they had left their comrades.

* * *

**Author's Note: Once again, sorry about the time between the last chapter and this. Once again real life intervened in a number of ways, the least of which being me developing a large addiction to Mount and Blade: Warband. However once again, I give to you the longest chapter so far, clocking in just shy of 11,000 words (not including this rather hefty Author's Note).**

**This chapter, though it did advance the main plot, did also give me chance to show how the five or so year interval between this story and the events of Skyrim has affected some characters. I do hope that you'll bear with me as I know I'm unveiling things a little bit at a time, such as who the devil Hakon's father is and what exactly is hitting the army's supply lines. However just be secure in the knowledge that I WILL reveal all in time.  
**

**As for the fact that the companions that Eoric seems to be attracting seem to be all Original Characters, that's because that although Bethesda did an amazing job with their characters in the game, I feel that the majority of them have been done to death in other Fics (Lydia for one, whose involvement with Ulfberth sprang from the fact that Adrienne had a habit of dying via dragon in my games, leaving Ulfberth all alone in Warmaiden's [Further note, yes a decent part of Eoric's character/backstory is that he's a trained smith, because although in Skyrim you can become a Master Blacksmith by forging a couple dozen gold rings, in real life it's a craft that takes years to learn, which means a decent chunk of Eoric's life was spent learning that skill so it's coloured his character]) so I decided to add some characters I could shape and create. H****owever don't fret, they will show up from time to time, some to a greater extent that others.**

**Also, I feel I didn't do a good job describing Thorek's helmet. It is in fact supposed to be one of the 'Spectacle Helmets' the Vikings ****favoured, but I had to try to describe it without using the word spectacles, which I'm quite sure do not exist in Tamriel. Use your search engine of choice if you're unsure about what they look like.**

**One last thing for those who might be interested, Eoric's war cry that Hakon remarked upon _is_ in Draconic, but is not a shout. It means roughly (the translation site I got it from eludes me unfortunately) _"Hear my fury"_ a fitting battle cry for a warrior like the Dragonborn.  
**

**PS (Warning DLC SPOILERS): Just as a rather meta note, this story was formulated believe or not before the release of the Dragonborn DLC. Thus major elements of that DLC (the existence of Miraak, the Dragonborn's obedience at the end to Hermaeus Mora) will not be included, as will be the same as Dawnguard, though minor elements (Stahlrim etc) may show up.**

**As always, Reviews or even just private messages very welcome.**

**Wolfbane**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_This was good._

That was the thought going through Gerich Krately's head as he stood alongside his fellow bandits. He was a tall man and wiry, with short black hair, slicked back from his brow with oil. His was a thin face, marked by an aquiline nose that betrayed his Imperial heritage and which was crossed by a thin scar, caused long ago by a particularly bold mark of his. Hooded dark eyes stared out from under heavy brows and his mouth was curled in a thin smirk. Everything about him spoke of riches unearned, from his well made boots, to the longcoat that lay over his thick leather breastplate. His hand was idly resting upon the red leather-bound hilt of his steel longsword, a fine piece taken from the hand of a Cyrodiilic merchant.

He'd led his bandit troop for nearly a decade now, ever since he'd knocked off the previous boss, a bastard named Rhano, after a raid gone wrong. Merchant caravan it was, he'd said it'd be an easy score when in fact it had been guarded by the damned Companions. Not just any three neither, they'd all been wearing that damned wolf armor, meaning they were the best of them. They'd lost ten of their own that day and he remembered them all: Froki, Caius, Langley, Anguy, Helvo, Nabia, who'd been one of the only females in the group but who'd snatch the balls off anyone who messed with her, Drulvan, Chiwish, Grommok and Enilthon. He slit Rhano's throat that night as he was sleeping and took over.

Even just below a decade later they still hadn't taken on any new hands, so they numbered only eleven but they made their way regardless, knocking off unprotected caravans, homesteads and isolated folk in the wilderness. Never went for anybody in armor though, never could tell if it was just some whelp who thought it made him look tough, or a veteran warrior with more kills to his name than he had septims in his purse but finding themselves in possession of the Towers was a strike of good luck straight from the Divines. That was, however, until some fool had hit an Army supply caravan, probably some idiot with more stones than sense. Every good bandit knew you never hit stuff like that; caravans and travelers were fine, people in Skyrim accepted it as part of the dangers of traveling, but hitting official things like that meant somebody'd be sending whole damn warbands after you.

He'd seen the Whiterun Cavalry training, he wanted none of that coming to his door. So he'd told the lads to abandon the Towers and run south. He'd been loath to do it, it being winter and all, but to him a few lean weeks were better than a damned lance through the eye. It'd been tough to get the lads to agree and they were all ill-tempered about it.

Hopefully _this_ would make them feel better.

After coming south, they'd set up in the forests that bordered the great geyser fields that dominated the southeastern part of Skyrim. He knew from experience that the road to Riften from the north was a decent hunting ground, and the geyser fields usually had visitors, taking the sights and all that. The sun had just started to set when they'd spotted them. A couple, man and woman. They'd set up camp at the foot of one of the hills that dotted the fields and were doing what most visiting the geyser's did; taking use of the warm waters of the springs for bathing, whilst their horse stood grazing off to one side.

Silently they'd crossed the river and taken up position, hiding in a small copse of trees by an entrance to a cave, now blocked over by what seemed to be giant roots. As the woman had risen from the pool to join her man by the fire they'd made their move. A stone from the wood elf Theralin had done for the man, a Breton, who now lay bleeding from the head at the feet of Argamir, the sullen, massive Nord, who stood next to him. It seemed he was not dead, only unconscious. But the woman was a different matter. As they rushed in she'd grabbed her man's iron shortsword and rushed into a small alcove in the hill. Now she had her back against the bare stone of the hill, ringed by him and his men. Gerich prided himself on being able to read people and he knew that the woman before him was not only scared but also had no idea how the use the pig-sticker she had clasped in her hand.

Ah, but she was a beauty; hair the color of spun gold and a face so comely that the look of terror it had did little to diminish it. Taking a guess, she'd seen probably around twenty summers, same as the unconscious man. The light sheet of linen she'd been toweling herself with did a poor job of hiding her body, clinging here and there as it was, barely covering anything north of her waist. She was finely built, her entire body had a healthy tan, she had shapely, long legs and the sheet clung to a more than ample bosom. Just looking at her stirred his blood.

He'd have her first, as was his right as leader, twice if she proved a good lay. Then he'd give her to the boys, they'd all enjoy her, save for the Argonian; Reesei, he had often voiced his distaste for 'smoothskins'. Then, after they'd killed the man and ransacked the camp, they'd take her with them, enjoy her some more. If she was truly a good lay they'd head east. He knew people in High Rock who'd pay good money for a bedwarmer.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Gerich stepped forward. When he spoke his rich, Imperial voice was low, easy, like he was trying to calm a skittish horse.

"Now then my dear," He said, as the woman tried to get away from him, pressing herself back against the rock. "Why don't you put that sword down. It'd be a shame if you cut yourself with it."

"Get away!" The woman yelled, swinging the shortsword to and fro ineffectually, tears pricked at the corners of her deep blue eyes. "Jus- just go away."

"Now I'm not going to do that." Gerich said, holding his hands outwards, palms spread. "Fine bandit I'd be if I went away when people told me to. Come on dear, put the sword away."

"No." She said, shaking her head. The tears were flowing now. Here and there she was readjusting her grip on the sheet, trying to cover herself more but failing do so as it hitched up or fell in places, only exposing more flesh.

"That's a shame, 'cause I really don't want to hurt you." _Not your body anyway. _He thought to himself as his gaze dropped to where the woman briefly exposed what lay between her legs._ To mar that would be almost sacrilegious. _"Or your friend here. Shame if something happened to him." He prodded the dazed man lightly with the tip of his Balmoran leather riding boot. He liked his boots, in fact he'd kill for another pair, seeing as he'd killed for the first pair it seemed only right.

"Don't hurt him!" The woman cried, thrusting the short blade out a little.

"I won't, sweet thing." Gerich said, the lie coming easily to his tongue as his eyes dark eyes roved over her mostly naked form. "Just put the sword down and he'll be fine."

"I-I." The girl was stammering, the sword quaking visibly in her hands. Slowly her arm started to drop.

The smirk on his face turning into a full grin, Gerich looked over his shoulder at Argamir. "Go fetch the blade off her." He said, jerking his head over at the quivering woman. Already he could feel the stiffening of his loins; he was going to enjoy this.

The shaven headed Nord walked forward, before stopping halfway towards the woman, who, weeping, had slid down and was now huddled against the hill, the shortsword lying on the ground forgotten.

"Argamir?" Gerich said, his voice rising slightly. "I told you to do something."

Before Argamir could reply, Reesei called out.

"Boss, look!" He said, pointing one scaled finger up at the top of the hill.

Doing so, Gerich looked up at what had so grabbed his men's attention. What he saw made his blood run cold.

A large figure stood there, illuminated by the red light of the sun's dying rays as it began to set over the Throat of the World. He was fully armored and armed with a long black greatsword, which was planted tip-first into the ground; over his shoulders was a great cloak of dark fur. He stood upon the hill, unmoving, like some ancient, forgotten sentinel. Despite the nearby campfire, gooseflesh prickled on Gerich's skin. This would be nothing good. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman raise her head at the disturbance of her attackers, but located as she was in the alcove of rock, she could not see what affected them so.

Refocussing on the armored figure, Gerich squinted as he tried to get a better look at this new arrival. Then his dark eyes alighted on something, something that made his eyes widen in shock. There, upon the figure's chestplate, was an image of a snarling wolf. The other pieces started falling into place: the fur kilt, the banded arm braces, the open faced helm with its jaw guards. The man was clad in the Armor of the Wolf.

_Another damned Companion. _Gerich snarled within the confines of his mind. _And one of their best to boot. He's been sent after us. But alone?_

"Who are you?" He called out to the armored man. "What do you want?"

The figure atop the hill said nothing. Instead he drew his greatsword from the dirt and began to slowly stride down the small path cut into the side of the hill by generations of walkers. Around him his men repositioned, hands coming to rest upon the hilts and handles of their weapons, Argamir drawing out his massive warhammer. The girl, seeing this, peered around at the movement and then looked to the unconscious man who lay upon the ground, she probably thought to run to him but a quick hard glance checked that action.

Finally the armored figure stopped at the foot of the hill, once again planting the tip of his black greatsword into the dirt, allowing Gerich to get a proper look at him. He was tall, just maybe an inch shorter than Argamir. Within the shadows of his open-faced helmet a pair of grey eyes, hard and cold as steel, gazed out under blonde brows. Even if his armament hadn't given it away, those eyes told Gerich that this was a dangerous man. All around him the bandits were arrayed, keeping a distance of roughly fifteen paces.

"I asked you who you are, stranger." Gerich said, working to keep up the easy-going tone in his voice. "Hardly polite to keep that information quiet."

Finally the stranger spoke. But it was with a voice as deep and threatening as a stormy sea. "You do not know me, but I know you, Gerich."

That sent his mind reeling, how did this warrior, this _Companion_, know his name? "A-" He turned the stammer into a quick cough, like he was simply clearing his throat "And how do you know my name, warrior?"

"I found the friends you left behind." Came the cold reply.

"Arvas, Briana?" Theralin spoke up. Gerich cursed him inside his own head, but the wood elf always had been the closest to that pair.

"Aye," The warrior replied, before shifting those grey eyes of his to the small elf. "They won't be joining you."

The tone of finality in the man's voice hit each of the bandits, and within the darkness of his helmet Gerich thought he could see the man's lips twist into a slight smirk. Theralin, with his elven eyes, definitely saw it.

"BASTAAARD!" He yelled, drawing his large serrated dagger and charging the man. The sudden aggression on the Bosmer's part surprised them all, he'd always been one of the more level-headed of them.

That uncommon anger caused his doom. Rushing the man, he thrust out with his jagged blade. The man barely expended any effort; shrugging his cloak off his shoulders and bringing up his greatsword, he sidestepped and drove the black blade lengthways across the Bosmer's gut and, as he collapsed to the ground, then delivered a vicious downward slash that all but decapitated the little elf. Blood pumped from the ruin of his neck, sinking deep into the dusty ground.

Their own blood up, the bandits drew their weapons and charged at the man, screaming battle cries at the loss of their friend; even a seemingly accomplished warrior could not surely stand against all eight of them, could he? He certainly thought he could, for instead of backing away and taking the high ground he actually counter-charged, bellowing a war-cry in some strange language. As he moved towards the lone warrior Gerich was certain he saw a unnatural shimmer of light pass along the length of the black blade.

But then he heard something that grabbed his attention.

Hoofbeats.

From around both sides of the hill, one from the very copse they'd hidden in and another from around the other side, two horsemen charged their horses against them. He saw one strike Sarel down with a sword of silver steel before he had to duck to avoid getting his head split by the other horseman's axe. Riding off a ways the two horsemen, one an old greybeard, the other a youth, slipped from their saddles and charged them on foot.

Around Gerich all was chaos. He saw the Companion practically chop Vantus in half with a diagonal slash that sliced straight through his hide armor. Argamir went up against him, swinging his warhammer overhead, seemingly driving the Companion to his knees as he blocked it, but then one hand fell to his side and, drawing a wicked looking seax, he gutted the shaven Nord, his bowels falling to the ground with a sickening sound. He saw the grey-bearded one showing strength and skill despite his years, taking on Taldur and Sigurn simultaneously, his longsword striking out like a damned viper.

Then his instincts screamed at him and he barely brought his own longsword up it time to deflect a blow from the axe of the youth. He struck out with a vicious riposte but the youth rapidly backpedaled, avoiding the thrust. He heard a chilling scream of pain to his right and daring a glance he saw what looked like lightning coursing across Reesei's body, which was being sheeted in blood from a terrible wound to his shoulder, as the Companion drew his blade back for another strike.

_Enchanted greatsword. That's just overdoing it. _He thought bitterly before snapping his attention back to the youth. He was of average height for a Nord and with well-developed muscles, though he was not stocky or powerfully built. He bore a steel waraxe alongside a wide thrusting dagger, which he had held in a reverse grip. A standard stance, evidently this boy was fresh out of training. _Easy as robbing an old lady._

Rushing forward, he thrust out with his blade, which the lad turned aside by beating it away with his war axe. He could see it in the lad's eyes, his blood was up but he was afraid. And fear more often than not would kill a man in a fight. Adopting a two handed grip of his longsword he slashed at the lad, twice in quick succession, driving him back before leaping backwards himself to avoid the probable counter attack with the dagger at close range.

"You can't beat me lad." He taunted, all smoothness in his voice departed. "Your friends? Maybe. But you?" He shook his head. "No chance."

He expected the lad to reply in turn, possibly call him a whoreson, which would be funny seeing as that was actually the truth. Instead he saw that the youth, like him before, wasn't focussed. His eyes had darted away and, following the line of sight he saw the young man looking at the alcove where the girl lay, probably still shaking and terrified of the battling men.

_Yes boy, look at the pretty girl and her tits, they'll be the last thing you ever see _Gerich thought to himself as he lunged forward again, his longsword poised to pierce the young man's scale shirt and puncture his heart.

But then the youth's gaze turned back to him and a dark chill ran up his spine. There wasn't any fear in his opponent's eyes, there was hate and anger, not the anger that would cause a man to get sloppy in a fight, the anger that would drive a man to kill, even if he was struck a thousand times.

_Berezark. _The ancient Nordic word, told to him by Argamir long ago, rang through his mind. It didn't mean the same as an Orcish berserker rage, where the rampaging orc felt no pain from his wounds and had limitless stamina, this was were a Nord simply did not. _care_. He would fight until his body was broken, no matter what wounds or fatigue assailed him. The only thing in his mind was the kill.

_Wrath. _That was it's meaning.

From then on everything seemed to be happening underwater. A savage strike by the boy's axe sent his sword spinning from his fingers. Then the youth, teeth bared in a terrible snarl of hatred, slammed his dagger through his knee, shattering the bones beneath and driving him to the ground. As pain flared throughout his body, Gerich looked up to see the young man, rage blazing like fire in his eyes, bring his war axe down.

* * *

Drawing his blade from the last bandit to stand before him, Eoric breathed deep. Then he whistled and, as Aegir appeared from around the hill, he cleaned the fresh blood from the black metal of the Stormblade, as well as his gauntlets, with a rag of fabric taken from the bandit's corpse. Aegir trotted up to him, nuzzling him slightly as he returned the greatsword to its sheath that was still strapped to Aegir's saddle.

It had worked, the plan had gone off seemingly without a hitch. They'd tracked the bandits south for most of the tail-end of the afternoon until they'd found them here, at their camp. They'd ridden on and crossed the river upstream, before riding northward again and coming upon the hill. Dismounting, he had drawn the Stormblade and made his way up the hill. His theatrics would keep the bandits' focus on him whilst Hakon and Thorek got into position and awaited the signal: his war cry. "_Hear my fury."_

He had held back from using the Thu'um, not seeing the need. Steel had been enough to carry the day. Thorek had shown age had still not withered his skill, two dead bandits lay on the ground before him, one with a deep cut across his throat, the other with a blood slowly pumping from a stab wound to his chest.

He shifted his gaze to where he had last seen Hakon, but something along the way drew his attention. Only one tent, with a double bedroll, and no sign of any equipment to support a band this size. Also, one body lay upon the ground who, as well as not wearing any armor, had no weapon. Then suddenly he noticed movement by the hill, in a small natural alcove. It was a young woman, perhaps fifteen years younger than himself, clad in naught but a small white sheet of linen that did little to cover her. Realization hit him between the eyes and he internally cursed himself for a fool, the bandits hadn't been camping, they'd been raiding.

Striding quickly, he raced to where he had shed his cloak. Picking it up he made his way to the small alcove. Upon seeing him appear, the woman instantly threw herself against the rock behind her, trying to make as much distance between him and herself, her tear-red eyes darted to where a crude iron shortsword lay upon the ground.

"You won't need that lass." He said,kneeling down, his voice becoming soft and soothing. The girl's eyes flicked back to him, wide with terror. "I'm not going to hurt you." Moving his arm slowly and, stretching it out, offered her the wolfskin cloak.

The practically naked woman eyed the dark fur for a moment, eyes flicking between it and the offerer. Then her hands darted out and grabbed the wolfskin. Wrapping herself in it, grateful for the protection it provided from the cold, which returned to her as the adrenaline in her system started to fade, she looked into the face of her rescuer, which was open and kind.

"T-thank you sir." She said, stammering more from cold than fright. Over the shoulder of the blonde warrior she could see another, older fighter. When he saw his blood spattered face fell, before a kind smile spread across his face. In a certain way he reminded her of her grandfather.

"It's okay lass," The Eoric replied, smiling also. "What's your name?"

"I-Ilse." She said, her skin becoming less pale as the warmth returned to her body beneath the heavy wolfskin. "My name's Ilse."

"Hello Ilse." Came the reply. "I am Eoric." He then looked away, over where the unarmored man lay.

"Is that your man, Ilse?" He asked, pointing the fallen figure out. He could see the slight rise and fall of the man's chest, so he was alive at least. "Over there?"

Again the lass' eyes flared wide. "Alain!" She cried, and surged to her feet.

"It's okay lass, it's okay." Eoric said, standing also and putting one hand to the young woman's shoulder, which he instantly withdrew once she'd stopped. "We'll take care of him."

Ilse took a deep breath, steadying herself on legs that were beginning to wobble as the adrenaline completely left her. Looking back at Eoric she nodded slightly.

"Thorek," Eoric said, a tone of leadership entering his voice. "Look after him will you?"

Immediately Thorek went to the fallen man's side, rummaging around in a pouch on his belt for healing herbs or poultices. He did not have the gift of Restoration magic, but more than four decades' worth of wandering had taught him the natural healing arts. While he did so, Eoric stepped aside from the entrance to the alcove and offered the young woman a gauntleted hand.

"Come on, lass." He said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Come sit by the fire."

Nodding, Ilse took his hand and let him lead her out of the alcove. She balked at the sight of the dead, especially the disemboweled Nord, but Eoric kept her going with warm words of encouragement. After a few moments she was sat by the fire, which was burning low but still had enough heat to keep the cool of the rapidly encroaching night at bay.

"Hakon?" Eoric called over his shoulder. "Can you make a start on clearing those bodies? Strip them of anything we could sell and put them far away from the camp. I'll help you in a little while."

There was no response.

"Hakon?" Eoric asked, spinning around to find the lad. He could not be among the dead, he refused to believe that.

Thankfully he was not. The young man was stood over the body of what looked to be Gerich, the bandit leader. The only thing that confirmed that was the long coat that he wore, for Hakon's axe had practically cleaved the man's skull in two and now lay there, stuck out of the ruined face. He seemed to be just standing there, looking down at the corpse before him, his eyes wide but unfocussed.

_The lad's first kill. _Eoric reminded himself.

Walking calmly up to Hakon, he put a hand gently to the younger man's shoulder. Turning around, Hakon just looked at him. Eoric could see the feelings, the mental exhaustion behind the lad's brown eyes, he'd seen it time and time again in the rebellion and the years before that, in scores of faces on countless battlefields. Shifting his hand to the young man's back, he led him towards the fireplace, Hakon letting him do it.

Sitting him down, the lass Ilse looking up as the young man with the haunted look sat down across from her, Eoric turned back around and headed back to where the bodies lay.

* * *

Some time later everyone was sat around the campfire, which had been stoked up and was now being used to cook a haunch of salted pork that Thorek had taken from his saddlebags. Off to one side the three horses had been hitched and were now resting, as well as the horse revealed to be that of the young couple, occasionally nibbling at the feed put down for them.

Alain, the Breton lad who'd been hit by one of the bandits slings, had woken up after a few minutes of Thorek's ministrations. Surging upright, despite the pain still ringing in his head, he'd seemed ready to fight them all, until he was calmed by Ilse and told that Eoric, Thorek and Hakon were friends, who had in fact saved them from bandits. The two of them were now huddled against one another, Ilse nestled in the crook of Alain's shoulder, she had now dressed but was still using Eoric's wolfskin to warm them both. He did not mind, the undershirt he wore under his breastplate, which now lay at his side along with the rest of his armor and his saddlebags, did enough to keep him warm.

Hakon was talking, everybody else simply listening as the young man stared into the fire.

"I missed him at first, on horseback. Then after we went in on foot I went for him again. He blocked my first attack, then countered. If I hadn't backpedaled it'd have taken my throat out. He went on the offensive then. He was fast, really fast. He drove me back." Hakon then looked away from the fire then, looking directly at across at Ilse. "Then I saw you."

"Me?" The young woman asked, tilting her head slightly. She'd mostly kept her eyes shut whilst the fight had raged around her.

"Aye." Hakon answered, before turning his gaze back to the fire. "I saw you shivering in that alcove and I just felt so damned _angry. _I felt this..._thing. _It was like...like a fog came down over my mind. It obscured nearly everything, all the fear I was feeling, everything my tutors had taught me. I looked back at that man and all I felt only..." The young man gritted his teeth. "Hate. Hate and anger. I wanted to hurt him, to kill him for what he was going to do to you. I-I bashed his sword away." He glanced over at where it lay with the rest of the sellable items Eoric had taken from the bodies. "I rammed my dagger into his knee." The young man's fists unconsciously clenched. "I put my axe straight through his skull." He looked down at his hands and unclenched them, breathing out audibly.

Leaning backwards on the log he was sat on, Thorek regarded the young man. "So you're a Berezark."

"What?" The young man exclaimed, looking over at the old wandering warrior.. "No I-"

"Lad," The old man cut off his protestation. "I have been in this world for just over six decades. Four of them were spent amongst fighting men. You are a Berezark."

The blonde lass Ilse spoke up then, as Hakon tried to come to terms with what he had been told he was. He knew well what a Berezark was, a manic killer, who lived only for death. "What exactly is a.." she struggled to pronounce the word for a moment "A Berezark?"

Her man, Alain made to explain, but seeing the blonde swordsman look over, he instead deferred to him. "A Berezark, Ilse, is a special kind of warrior. In combat they are consumed by a anger unlike any other. Their strength grows in the whirl of combat and they're one of the most deadly of opponents." He looked over the fire at where Hakon sat, his head low, a disconsolate expression on his face. "Do you know why, Hakon?"

"Because they are insane?" The young Nord replied bitterly.

"No!" Thorek boomed, making all of the faces around the fire turn to him. "That is not what a Berezark is. Twenty years ago I got caught up in a border war in High Rock, the city I was in got besieged. I fell in with a group of warriors and one of their members was, like you, Berezark. Gerard was his name. In battle he was a whirlwind, but out of it? He was a good man, a kind man. He had a wife and three children. In all his time on campaign he never taken another woman, even later when we counterattacked and besieged one of their towns. He held to the Iron Code."

Before anybody could ask him what the Iron Code was, Thorek moved on. "The _reason_ that Berezarks are the most deadly fighters is because of this: Nearly all fighters gravitate between attack and defense, for despite a desire to win there is an equal or in many a much more than equal desire _not to lose._ In Berezarks there is no such desire; there wroth strips them of fear. They are all out attack. And invariably, _should _they fall, they take their opponents with them."

At that Eoric nodded, whilst Alain looked, like Hakon and Ilse, like he'd just received a strict education.

It was Ilse that broke the silence. "At least you killed him, no?" She said, her voice sweet and kind. "You're alive." Beside her Alain smiled at his partner's good nature. There was love in his eyes, plain to the older men around the campfire.

At Ilse's question Hakon nodded, starting to see Berezarks, _himself, _in a new light. A slight smile edging across his lips he looked over at her. "Not bad for a first timer, eh?"

Thorek sniffed. "He was your first kill?" He nodded. "Not bad laddie, not bad."

"Who was yours?" Hakon asked, the question darting across the campfire.

"Well that's going back aways." Thorek said, grinning wryly. "Was it- no. Ah, yes. It was the summer of 166. I was just starting my wanderings. Came across this petty nobleman in Hammerfell. He figured the people on his land were his slaves. Wanted to enact the 'right' of First Night with some farm-girl who just got married." The old warrior scowled as he remembered that day. "I yelled at him, told him what I thought of him. Bastard doesn't take well to that, so he comes charging at me on his horse, this dumb, highborn fool, thinking he'll take out this impudent peasant with a single swing of his sword." Thorek chuckled. "Didn't expect _me _to charge _him. _I whacked the horse on the snout with my shield. The beast reared in pain and threw him. Scrabbling for his sword, he gets up and starts hacking away. Every time he hits my shield, it was like he was aiming for the damned thing. I bash him in the face, broke his nose, I think. Then, while his scrambling backwards, telling me," He dropped into a husky, mocking tone of voice "_Just who on Nirn he is, _I rammed my sword through his chest. Put too much energy into it, practically buried it into the ground."

"Impressive." Eoric said, keeping his eyes on the roasting meat above the fire.

"Well the farmer wasn't too pleased, seeing as I'd killed his lord and all. But I stayed around, made sure nothing came back on them. Turns out the lordling's brother was a better man. Deemed my killing 'a honorable duel' and that was the end of it. On I wandered."

"And you Eoric?" Hakon asked, looking over at the Dragonborn. "What was your first kill?"

Eoric simply stared at the fire and for a few silent moments it seemed like he would not answer. But when he did his voice wasn't full of nostalgia like Thorek's had been. It was heavy, laden with the weight of years and recollection.

"His name was Callum. He was a bit older than me at the time, worked in the General Store whilst I was apprenticed to a smith. He had curled blonde hair, straight white teeth and one of those dimpled chins all the girls like." At that Alain looked down at Ilse, who saw his questioning gaze and nodded in confirmation. Not even seeming to notice, Eoric carried on. "We never got on. He had this gang of friends that I wasn't apart of. I kept to myself mostly, learning my craft. Not Callum, he shirked his job when he could, father was a magistrate so his employer wouldn't do anything." He paused to throw another log on the fire.

"So one day I'm in the back of the shop, hammering away at an ingot with a great two handed hammer, trying to get into a proper shape or what have you, when I hear this noise. It was Callum and his mates. They were yelling at an Altmer, this was less than twenty years since the Great War and Callum had lost his mother in it when the Aldmeri attacked. No excuse. I knew the Altmer, so did my master, so did a lot where we lived. Valkaion. He used to be a Tribune in the Legion before he lost the use of a leg in the war, fighting the damned Dominion. Callum didn't know, or he didn't care. He and his mates were swearing at him, calling every name under the sun and Valkaion just took it. I went to help but my master put my arm in a vice grip." Eoric took a deep breath.

"Then one of Callum's friends knocked the crutch away from him and they all set about kicking him. I saw red. And I tore out of my master's grip." Eoric's tone was getting more bitter, more angry as he remembered that day. "I marched up to Callum, hammer in hand. I told him to leave Valkaion alone. He and his mates laughed at me. Thought I was a joke, some sixteen-seventeen year old with a big hammer, playing at being tough. They told me to piss off, I said I wouldn't. Callum drew a dagger, a nice fancy piece his father had given him for his eighteenth name day. Third era, well forged steel, engraved gold hilt with a dark wood grip." Eoric's voice became grave. "As his friends, my master, Valkaion and everybody in the marketplace watched, Callum went for me. Nearly took my damned eye out. I hit him with the hammer, probably shattered every bone in his right arm, as I walked away he came running at me, dagger now in his left hand. I swung that hammer so hard I crushed his skull." Eoric tilted his head slightly. " 'course now I had just killed the magistrate's son and probably nobody save my master would say it was self-defense. But Valkaion got to his feet and called to everybody. Called them all by name. Reminded them just who he was and what he had given in their service during his time in the Legion. So when the magistrate came down everybody, even Callum's friends, told him the truth." Eoric then went silent.

After a few moments of quiet, Alain spoke up. "I think that pork's just about done."

That brought a chuckle and a smile to Eoric's face. "Aye lad, I think it is. Thorek?"

Thorek then took the pork from the spit and set about carving it up into equal portions, whilst Ilse searched her pack for a small flask of wine, which she handed around as Thorek did the same with the pork. It was divine, tender and full of juice, and the wine was mellow and went down easy, complimenting the saltiness of the pork brilliantly. They all ate in contented silence until Eoric spoke up again.

"So Alain," He said, grabbing the Breton's attention. "You seemed to be about to explain what a Berezark was. You a warrior yourself?"

"Oh gods no." Alain answered, Ilse smiling slightly at the question. "Well, perhaps a warrior of the mind. I'm a scholar, I hope to write a book about Skyrim and its history, both natural and social. Too many of the books these days have Imperial bias in them, written in as a matter of course due to entire Eras of Cyrodiilic dominance. Most writers probably didn't even notice it as they wrote."

"And how did you two meet?" Hakon asked, gesturing vaguely at the pair of lovers.

This time Ilse took the reins. "Well I work in a tavern in a small hamlet along the northwest side of Lake Honrich, just as it runs into the Treva River, called imaginatively 'The Riverrun Inn'. Alain showed up one day, looking very ragged."

"My horse bolted on me, you see?" Alain explained. "Chased the thing for over half a mile. I was in The Rift because supposedly a First Era campaign against the Snow Elves took place here. The hamlet of Riverrun seemed a decent place to set up, being practically in the center of The Rift."

"Anyway, Alain comes in, looking like a drowned mouse, and asks for a bed for the week. He gets set up, unpacking all these books of his. Nearly thirty of them."

"Twenty-two, my love." Alain insisted. "If we're not counting the one that caught fire, should never had fallen asleep with the candle still burning."

"You're lucky Rodrik didn't throw you out after that." Ilse said, before continuing. "So I got a bit interested in this young man with all his books, staying up to all hours reading, so one day I ask him what he's up to and he explains. At first it sounded a bit dull, but he was so very passionate he got me interested. After around four days I ask if he could teach me, to read you see."

"But my rent was about to end the next day." Alain supplied.

"So I said he could stay with me, seeing as I had a house. My parents, gods rest them, died when I was young so Rodrik looked after me but I still inherited our old house. His teaching led to fondness and fondness," Ilse looked up at Alain, who in turn looked down at her. "Well that became love." Just to mark that point she gave him a quick kiss.

"And what brought you out here, all the way from Lake Honrich?" Eoric asked, taking a sip of wine before passing it over to Hakon.

At that question the two lovers' faces dropped slightly as their minds briefly flashed over the days events. Ilse spoke up first. "Well it's been around a year since we started being together and Alain, romantic that he is, wanted to do something special. So he suggested coming to see, how did you put it? Oh yes "The greatest geological wonder in all of Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel." We'd been here around a day when," She breathed deep. "When those bandits came."

"I'm sorry Ilse," Alain said, hugging her tighter. "I should never have brought you here."

"No man can know the future, Alain." Eoric said, looking at the young man, though in his mind he found himself thinking _Though there is that old woman in Whiterun_. "Do not punish yourself."

"I know..." Alain said, before smiling weakly and giving Ilse another kiss.

"How did you meet your wife, Eoric?" Hakon asked, looking away from the display of affection.

Eoric shook his head, standing up as he did so. "Another time perhaps, lad. But for now we must sleep. We ride at first light." He looked over at Ilse and Alain. "I think it's best if you travel with us. There might still be bandits on the road."

Alain nodded, before looking up at Eoric. "I think I know who you are sir, I mean I know your name, but I think I know _who _you are." Beside him, Ilse regarded her man with an odd look.

Eoric raised an eyebrow. "Really, who do you think I am?"

Alain spoke simply. "You're the Dragonborn. The Dovahkiin."

"Alain, don't be silly." Ilse said tiredly, whacking him gently across the head. What Eoric said next made her mouth drop open slightly in surprise.

"You got me lad." Eoric answered, smiling and crossing his arms. "What tipped you off?"

"Well it just sort of fitted," Alain replied, shrugging slightly. "The armor, the greatsword, the grey horse and for all I knew you could've used the Thu'um whilst I was unconscious."

"I didn't. However," He said, looking up to the sky. "Those clouds do look a bit menacing. I'd hate to wake up in the middle of a rainstorm."

Then, letting his hands drop to his sides and putting one foot behind him, Eoric turned his head to the sky. When he spoke his voice was a command and the very sky yielded to it.

"_**LOK VAH KOOR!" **_

Responding to his call the skies cleared and the light of the stars, Masser and Secunda and two magnificent green aurorae, that hung down from the heavens like a pair of curtains, shone down upon them in all their glory and wonder. Looking back to the party, Eoric grinned at the shocked and impressed expressions present on all faces save for Thorek's, who had of course seen him utilize much more dangerous shouts that that one during the time they had met during the Rebellion.

"That's enough for tonight." He said, before getting into his bedroll, which lay next to his seax knife and greatsword. "We've got a long road ahead of us."

**A/N:**

**Well that's another chapter done. Hope you find it to your liking. I gotta say that first part was a bit uncomfortable to write, I don't particularly like getting inside the heads of would-be rapists and slavers, but at least Hakon's axe got to share the experience, nay? **

**Small note about Hakon, the ancient Nordic word I'm using (and came up with as ancient Nordic seems a bit scant in the game if memory serves) is 'Berezark' and yes it can be used as both noun and adjective (A Berezark goes Berezark in battle etc) It's pronounced in my mind, if any of you're wondering, "Bear-a-zark"**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Follow, favourite and please review, if you want. More to follow when I find time. Wolf out. **


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N 1: Sorry for the long wait, couple of weeks ago I got ill and even when I got better, it robbed me of a lot of the inertia to get this done. However here it is, clocking in just north of 13,000 words, the longest one yet. Enjoy.  
**

Chapter 5

Thorek briefly looked up at the weak winter sun, which was heading over the mountains to the West, as he and his traveling companions entered the hamlet that served as home for Ilse and Alain. It was a pleasant enough place to his mind; a scattering of small homesteads, along with the tavern and even a mill that harnessed the power of the waters draining out of the mighty Lake Honrich to drive its machinery. The roofs were dusted with a covering of snow as were the minor pathways. It was even defended, for he saw a few Hold Guards in their purple sashes patrolling the streets and off across a stone bridge there was signs of construction as masons worked on high scaffolds, restoring an ancient fort as part of the program of public works High King Ulfric had enacted to find jobs for the unemployed. All around were the smells and sounds of life and winter; baking bread, the giggling of a pair of children as they played in the deeper piles of snow, even a faint waft of cinnamon coming from somewhere.

_And people wonder why soldiers and warriors usually settle down. _He thought, glancing over at where Eoric rode at the head of the party. _Won't do for me though. I don't have the training for a smith, I'd make a poor farmer, an atrocious miller and an even worse innkeeper. _

It had been an uneventful, if hard, ride to reach the hamlet. The winding roads that led up to the plateau that The Rift sat upon had been covered in snow, maybe a foot high, but the party's hardy mounts had gotten through it with little trouble, Eoric's great warhorse, Aegir, taking the lion's share of the work as it had cleared the way. Once upon the plateau the going had been easier, with clear skies upon them they had made decent time, from the position of the sun it was maybe around five in the evening. Soon the masons would leave their scaffolds and come across the bridge to take their evening meal in the inn they were now riding towards.

As they did so, Thorek noticed they were being watched by the townsfolk. Off to one side he saw an aged Dunmer look up from where he was gathering the last of his winter crops whilst over by the mill a young boy gazed over from where he was guiding a a great tree-trunk into the mechanical saw to look at the new arrivals. Such as it ever was when armed and armored strangers came to a small settlement.

At that moment, a man who was undoubtedly Rodrik the tavern owner, dressed in simple clothes of green homespun wool, came out of the Riverrun Inn. He was a man of average height, with a ruddy complexion and a large belly that hung over a broad belt that held upon it a small dagger and a cleaning cloth. Though balding he made up for it with a large Horker mustache.

"Ho there, friends!" He called out before noticing the young couple mounted upon a single horse. "Ilse? Alein? What are you doing back? You said you were staying out there for at least another day." He cast a wary glance at the trio of other riders, Eoric had wrapped his wolfskin around him and so the armor that would've marked him at least as a Companion was concealed.

"I'm afraid we had to come back, Rodrik." Ilse said, dismounting whilst Alein wrapped their horse's reins around "We were attacked by bandits, but these men saved us."

"Wha- bandits?" The innkeeper spluttered. Then he took the young woman into his arms in a tight embrace. "Are you sure you're alright? I was so worried about letting you and Alein go off on your own."

"Yes, Rodrik I'm fine. Alein got hit on the head, but he's okay now." Smiling good-naturedly at her surrogate father's worry, Ilse extricated herself from the big man's bear hug. It was obvious she was sparing him the details. She then turned to look at the still mounted trio. "As I said, these men saved us before anything really happened."

Composing himself, Rodrik looked up at them. "You have my deepest thanks, strangers. Ilse is a daughter to me." He then cocked an eyebrow in Alein's direction. "And I'm oddly fond of that one too. Might I know your names?"

"I am Eoric, son of Iorek." Eoric answered, using the traditional patronymic introduction, which cannily allowed him not to use or even mention his surname.

"I'm Hakon, sir." Hakon supplied, bowing his head slightly.

"And I'm Thorek Longstrider," Thorek finished.

"I'm Rodrik, pleasure to meet you all." He then beckoned them towards the tavern door. "Well, you've done me and mine a great kindness, too many folks these days would just ride by if they saw someone in trouble. I reckon that gives you room and board, free of charge for the night."

Eoric nodded in thanks, but then turned to stare across the placid waters of Lake Honrich, the town of Riften was barely a blur on the far side. Dismounting, he sighed. "Thank you, but no. We'll stop to stretch our legs and say goodbye properly, but I'm afraid we must press on. We have important business in Riften."

The innkeep, Ilse and Alain weren't the only ones that were disappointed. Thorek'd been looking forward to a night spent under a roof, in his experience they were usually warmer. But if Eoric said onward, then onward he would go. He trusted the younger man, from what he'd seen of him during the rebellion, he had a good heart, a love of his fellow man and a deeply ingrained sense of both honor and duty. Though he probably hadn't heard of it, he nonetheless kept to the Iron Code.

As he dismounted Thorek thought upon the Code, taught to him by his father, a great warrior in his day. It had been passed down to all warriors by one of the greatest: Bowen the Black, a man who had crossed the known world alone to bring back the wife who'd been taken from him by slavers. It was said that made an enemy of Death itself, such was his refusal to die. His code was simple:

"_Stand tall against evil. Do not cheat, steal or lie. That is for lesser men. Never harm a child, nor despoil a woman. Fight the darkness wherever it is found and take not one step back. Protect those who cannot protect themselves and never allow yourself to commit evil through thoughts of gain."_

Those words had guided him through over four decades of war and battle, from Skyrim to Elsweyr, Summerset Isle to Morrowind. And now they had guided him to this inn at the side of Lake Honrich, in the company of a young Berezark and the man born with a soul of a Dragon.

Striding forward, he embraced Ilse as the innkeeper went back inside to give the travelers their privacy. "Good luck lass." He said, a sad smile on his lips. She was a good woman, better than many he had met in his years.

"And to you, gods watch over you." She said, smiling at him as they released from the embrace. The sad process was repeated as all said there goodbyes and the three travelers remounted. But before Eoric returned to his saddle he took something from the collection of the bandits' gear he had tied up in a bundle. It was a fine looking longsword, the hilt bound in red leather along with the scabbard, he'd seen it in the hands of the bandit Hakon had killed. Walking back, Eoric talked to Alein.

"Here." He said, holding the sword out hilt first. "Just in case."

"Eoric, I-I" The Breton looked uncertain and Thorek could understand why. That sword would carry many difficult memories for the young couple. The man who had carried it before had been vile.

"Alein," Eoric said, putting a free hand to the man's shoulder. "A sword is simply a tool, a length of metal; no more evil than a saw or a painting brush. So take it, and use it to keep you," He briefly looked over at Ilse. "And your loved ones safe."

After a moment's hesitation, Alein reached out and grasped the scabbard below the crossguard. Then he looked at Eoric. "I, I don't really know much about sword-fighting." Embarrassment was plain in his voice.

Eoric chuckled. "Well I don't have the time to teach you everything, so remember this; throat and groin," He instructed, pointing as he did so. "Protect yours, cut theirs."

"I'll remember." Alain said, smiling slightly. Beside him, Ilse wrapped an arm around his waist while he put his over her shoulder.

Sighing, Eoric swung himself into his saddle, Aegir whinnying snorting lightly at the increase of weight. Looking down, he nodded and spoke, a half-smile on his face. "Farewell, Alein, Ilse. I wish you two all the luck in the world. Gods watch over you."

Touching their heels to their horses' sides, the companions moved forward. Passing by the young lad, he looked down at where he was looking at the designs etched into the first few inches of the blade.

"Now lad," He said, grabbing the young Breton's attention. "Don't get some fool notion into your head that because the Dragonborn gave you a blade, that means you should go off adventuring and slaying dragons."

Alein smiled. "No need to worry about that." He looked at Ilse. "I know where I belong."

"Aye lad, I think you do." Thorek answered. And with that, he followed the others, their horses picking up speed as the left the small hamlet behind them.

Crossing the bridge that crossed the Treva River, Hakon spoke up. "I wonder how they'll do. They have been through _quite_ a lot."

"I think they'll be fine laddie." Thorek answered. "Just fine."

From the head of the column Eoric called back. "Maybe we'll get mentioned in that book of Alain's."

"A scholar not mentioning he met the Dragonborn?" Thorek replied. "That'll happen."

Laughing amongst themselves, the trio spurred their horses.

* * *

The next day, in the late afternoon, Eoric and the others rode up the road to the stables outside of Riften's main gate. The journey had been uneventful, save for the howling of wolves in the forests of the pale, leafless trees keeping Hakon awake even after his turn on watch had been over. More snow had fallen during the night, blanketing the ground and near totally obscuring the roads, but they had pressed on as all they had to do to get to Riften was follow the banks of Lake Honrich. It was in fact still falling, though more sedately than the fierce blizzards that plagued Skyrim's northern Holds, and so Eoric had pulled the hood of his wolfskin cloak over his head.

Looking to his right as they approached the stables, Eoric saw the familiar sight of an encamped Khajiit trade caravan, which was beginning to be packed up. Though the cat-people had bundled themselves up tightly against the winter's chill, so far removed from the heat of Elsweyr, Eoric recognized the caravan was the one led by Ahkari, a female Khajiit possessing a pair of startling blue eyes. As he rode past he rose a hand in greeting to Kharjo, the caravan guard, who was stood by their campfire fire, a heavy longcoat worn over his plate armor. In response the guard raised a tankard of steaming liquid. When he had shared the road with them once Kharjo had offered him a cup of the dark liquid known among the Khajiit as _'Cafa"_ and he had found it too strong and bitter for his tastes. Kharjo however swore by it, saying it kept him awake and alert during watch duty.

Riding up to the stables, Shadr, the Redguard stablehand, opened the gate to the paddock and letting the three riders in. As he closed it behind them Eoric, who was now at the rear of their column, turned in his saddle and tossed a coin pouch that he'd prepared the previous night down to Shadr. In it were enough coins to pay Hofgrir Horse-Crusher to keep and feed their three horses for three days, as well as a small bit of extra gold for a vigilant watch for any would-be robbers.

Dismounting, he turned to his companions.

"Take everything with you. Every bit of tack, everything." He cautioned as he slung the Stormblade over one shoulder. "Leave nothing for thieves." He knew well that Riften was the Thieves Guild's home.

Both Hakon and Thorek nodded in agreement and set about stripping their horses of anything that could be stolen. The horses themselves Eoric was unconcerned about, for they were all trained warhorses and any enterprising horse thief trying to steal Aegir would probably find himself with a steel-shod hoof slamming into his forehead.

Minutes later, laden down with all their kit and their possessions, the three travelers approached the main gates. As they did so two Riften Hold Guards, dressed in the purple sashes and bearing shields emblazoned with the crossed blades of The Rift, walked up.

"Hold up there!" One of them said as they made their way towards the gate. "There's a toll to enter..."

The Hold Guard's attempted shakedown sputtered out as Eoric threw back his hood and fixed him with an almighty stare, his eyes as hard as steel.

"Thorren," He growled. "I thought I warned you the last time you tried that."

The guard fell into stammering, trying to excuse himself with all the franticness of a man who just realized that he'd just squared up to someone very much more important than him. Eventually his shoulders sagged and, looking up at The Dragonborn, he simply said sorry, stepping aside to allow them entrance. As he moved past, Eoric put his head beside the man's head and whispered, his voice as cold as ice.

"I told you once already, do that again and I swear you'll regret it."

Thorren just nodded hastily in response.

* * *

Entering through the main gate, the trio were immediately hit by many things as they entered Riften. First was the sight of it, all through narrow streets of high buildings of wood and stone people hustled and bustled, going about there day to day business quickly so they could get out of the cold; snow lay hastily pushed aside against buildings or else trodden underfoot into a thick, brown slush and a light fog hung low, obscuring their vision slightly.

Then there was the smell.

"By the gods!" Hakon exclaimed as it snaked its way into his nostrils. "What is that?"

"It's Riften, lad." Eoric answered. "Fish and honey and mead. No other smell like it."

"That's probably a good thing."

"Aye," Eoric said, chuckling. "That's true. Now come on, I'm friends with the owner of the Bee and Barb, we'll rest there for the night."

As they moved through the streets, people making way for the trio of heavily laden warriors, Eoric spotted Maul leaning against a wall, a sour look upon his face. He'd never been a civil man, let alone jovial, but it occurred to him that ever since the Dragon Crisis had ended, he'd seemed ever more angry and ill tempered. Then again, such an attitude was probably required to be Maven Black-Briar's top enforcer.

Crossing one of the small wooden bridges that spanned the now frozen-over canal that ran through Riften, Eoric heard someone shout his name. It was a familiar voice, one he knew very well.

Turning around, he quickly espied its owner. A tall woman, blonde of hair, clad in Orichalum armor of his own forging and with a large glass greatsword strapped across her back. It was Mjoll the Lioness, an old and dear friend of his, who had traveled and fought with him during the Dragon Crisis. At her side, as always, was Aerin, an Imperial of kind and gentle demeanor, wearing a thick cloak over his finely embroidered clothes. Two years ago he'd grown a thin beard, albeit one he kept finely trimmed.

"Mjoll!" He said, striding towards the woman with a smile on his face. Walking up to her, he dropped his belongings and hugged the warrior-woman, their armor clanging together audibly. "It's good to see you again!"

"And you, my friend." Mjoll said as they separated. Looking over his shoulder she espied his fellow travelers. "And who are your companions?"

"Ah!" Eoric said, before turning to Thorek and Hakon, who had followed up behind him. "May I introduce Hakon and Thorek Longstrider."

"A pleasure, ma'am." Hakon said, nodding his head slightly, while Thorek mimed tugging at his forelock.

"It's lovely to meet you both." Mjoll said, before turning her attention back to Eoric. "So what's brought you to Riften 'ric? It's too late in the year for your pilgrimage." She well knew of his annual week-long visits to the Throat of the World, to further train with the Greybeards.

"Traveling again Mjoll," Eoric answered. "Royal business."

Immediately Mjoll's expression changed. "Do you need my help?"

Eoric held up his hands. "No no. I can handle it." Then a slight smirk tilted his lips. "Besides you have more than enough to handle here, eh?

Mjoll shook her head slightly. "I still can't believe you got the Jarl to make me Thane."

Eoric shrugged. "Well helping me bring down the largest Skooma operation this side of Elsweyr probably helped." Behind him Hakon looked over at Thorek, who shrugged. "Anyway, you deserved it."

At that point Aerin spoke up. "Do you have anywhere to stay tonight, Eoric?"

Pointing a thumb over his shoulder, Eoric replied. "We're staying in the Bee and Barb for the night."

"Nonsense!" Aerin said, smiling. "You can stay at my house."

Eoric cocked an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

"Yes, yes I'm sure." Aerin said, picking up some of Eoric's stuff. "I've just cleared out the bottom floor, you can stay there for as long as you like. I think I've got some spare mattresses down there."

"Thank you, Aerin." Eoric said, picking up the rest of his things and following Mjoll and Aerin, Thorek and Hakon looking at each other and shrugging before following as well.

Moments later they all entered the house that Mjoll and Aerin lived in together. It was a simple enough dwelling, a trio of narrow floors, two of which were simple rooms whilst the upper floor was divided into two smaller rooms for Mjoll and Aerin to sleep in. The house itself was sparsely furnished, the main floor being dominated by a dining table with a few chairs and only a few rugs and half-empty bookshelves as decoration. Such were the dangers of living in a city home to the Thieves Guild, few people wore their wealth openly if they could not, or in Mjoll and Aerin's cast would not, pay the Guild's protection fees.

Moving to the back of the room, the group descended via a set of wooden stairs into the basement. As Aerin had said, it had recently been cleared; a few crates lay stacked up in the far corner along with, as promised, some spare cloth mattresses. The rest of the room was empty, save for a single wall sconce made of goat horn and a very large trunk, studded with metal, pressed up against one wall.

"You'll be okay here, I take it?" Aerin asked as the others finished coming down the stairs.

Casting his eye around the room, Thorek was the first to speak. "Aye, it'll be fine." He then looked at the Imperial. "Thank you for this, lad."

Aerin spread his hands. "It's nothing. Any friend of Eoric's is a friend of mine."

Moving past the pair, Hakon looked around the room before turning back to Aerin. "Is there anywhere we can secure our things?"

Aerin nodded.

"You can use the trunk." He said, pointing over at it. "You'll need these though." He then took a loop of leather from around his neck, upon which hung two identical keys. Walking over to the trunk, he took the keys from the leather loop and inserted them simultaneously into two locks placed at extreme ends of the trunk's front face. Turning them, again simultaneously, the chest lid sprung open.

"Impressive." Eoric said as Aerin stood.

"My own invention." Aerin answered, handing Thorek the keys. "I'd like to see a thief that can pick two locks at the same time."

"You designed this?" Hakon said, curiously looking at the trunk.

"I'm an engineer by trade." Aerin explained. "Between commissions I need to do things to keep my mind active."

"We'll leave you three to settle in." Mjoll said, before heading back upstairs, Aerin following her.

The three travelers then set about unpacking. All their supplies and riding tack, along with Eoric's bow and the Stormblade, were put into the chest though he kept his seax. Then, doffing their armor, the three men changed into more comfortable pulled on a simple pair of brown woolen leggings and a faded white tunic and a pair of warm buckskin moccasins. He then buckled his sword belt back on and put on his grey traveling cloak. Hakon put on an undershirt of blue wool, over which he wore another shirt of brown leather, as well as pair dark trousers and the boots Eoric had given him. Electing to leave his war axe behind, he took only his dagger, just in case.

Eoric himself donned a red woolen undershirt and over this he put on a long wool-backed coat of black leather, along with a pair of trousers and his pair of fur-lined boots. He then counted out three coin pouches, each carrying fifty Septims each, which he placed in different places in his coat, only one displayed openly upon a thick belt of heavy black leather.

Looping the thick black belt around his waist, he did up the clasps of black iron just as Mjoll and Aerin walked down the stairs. Mjoll had also changed out of her armor, along with washing off her warpaint, and was now wearing a simple green woolen shirt, tan linen trousers, a dark cloak and a pair of worn leather boots. Aerin was dressed in his usual finery.

"We're heading over to the Bee and Barb for the evening." Mjoll said as Eoric strapped his seax knife to his belt. "Would you like to join us?"

Words of assent came from all the travelers, save Eoric. "I'll join you later, first I have to talk to the Jarl."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Hakon asked, turning to the older man.

Eoric shook his head. "No, no. Go and enjoy yourself. I won't be long."

"Very well," Aerin said, before turning back up the stairs. "We'll see you there."

And so the group left the house, Aerin locking the door behind him. The majority of them headed straight over the bridge towards the tavern, eager to not be out in the gathering cold one second longer than necessary, whilst Eoric didn't cross over but instead headed down the street towards the looming presence of Mistveil Keep. As he passed by the entrance of the Temple of Mara he noticed through the mist a figure leaning nonchalantly against one of the arches that lined the temple of courtyard. He recognized the man, who was wearing a fine blue robe. Brynjolf, wasn't it? One of Cyrus' men?

As he walked past he saw the man step back into the shadows beneath the arches. Deciding to think no more about it, he picked up his pace and strode towards the keep.

* * *

Pushing open the large double doors, Eoric strode into the great hall of Mistveil Keep. The heat of the large firepit, which was surrounded on three sides by a long dining table that was already being set for the evening meal. Rich tapestries, most bearing the crossed daggers of The Rift, hung upon the walls whilst servants scrubbed idly at stains upon the wooden floor. Beyond the table, upon a raised dais, Jarl Laila Law-Giver sat upon her throne. At her left was seated her ever-present Altmer steward Anuriel. Though he kept his peace, Eoric did not like the steward, not because of her race as many Nords would, but rather because he believed that she held the wool over her Jarl's eyes. When he had first come to Riften he had entered the Keep and overheard her assuring the Jarl that the Thieves Guild had no presence in the city.

That he knew to be false.

She had also seemed both surprised and uneasy with the fact that he had smashed the Riften Skooma network, though that may have been because he had shown up with the bodies of all involved in a cart. Then there had been her counsel against Mjoll being made Thane of Riften, however fruitless in the long run. Aye, he did not like the Altmer. By her side was the Jarl's housecarl, Unmid Snow-Shod, who had fixed his eyes on him as soon as he'd walked in. A dedicated man and fervent supporter of Ulfric, he had no quarrel with him.

However as he walked towards the dais he noticed someone he distinctly _did _have a quarrel with. Seated upon a bench at the side of the hall was Maven Black-Briar, matriarch of the infamous Black-Briar family. To Eoric's mind, she was the true source of all of Riften's troubles. She was not a Jarl, nor even a Thane, she treated Riften as her own personal playground, nobody daring to defy her, save him and Mjoll. Even her openly admitted Imperial leanings had not been enough to cause her fall at the end of the rebellion. The only reason her youngest son remained in a luxurious cell in the city dungeons was because _she _wished it so. As he approached he locked stares with her, her dark eyes against his grey ones, which were hard as steel. The only reaction she gave was the arching of one thin eyebrow.

Taking his eyes of the woman, he bowed before the Jarl, who sat up in her chair. Her regal robes were dark, Eoric remembered that it was around this time five years ago that her youngest son, Saerlund, a strong-willed man who'd been of Imperial sympathies, had been killed. He had been walking through the streets when a man, crazed on Skooma, had jumped on him and hacked at him with a rusty knife. By the times the guards ran the man through Saerlund had bled to death. That had been the catalyst that had given him official dispensation to hunt down the Skooma ring.

"Jarl Laila." He said, kneeling before the dais.

"Rise, Dragonborn, rise." The Jarl replied, waving a hand. "What brings you to my hall."

"Royal business, milady." Eoric said, standing. "The King has asked me to hunt down whoever is attacking supply caravans to the Royal Army."

"I see." Jarl Laila replied, putting a hand to her chin. "I have heard of these attacks. It is a black day when our army is so openly attacked. Thankfully there have been no attacks in my Hold, gods be good. The Rift's forces are still well supplied." The Rift contributed mainly a force of heavy infantry, as well as a detachment of heavy cavalry, mounted upon well-bred horses.

"That is good to know, my Jarl." As Eoric spoke, he noticed Maven stalk from the hall.

"Indeed, though unfortunately it provides you with no leads in your investigation. But rest assured, should you need it, all available aid will be rendered to you." She then turned to her Steward. "Anuriel, how many men can we spare?"

The High Elf made a point of looking in her ledger. When she spoke her voice was heavy with well-practiced regret. "I am sorry my Jarl, but all the Hold Guards are deployed on essential duties and as you know, the Royal troops are outside our control."

"Ah," Jarl Laila replied, turning back to Eoric, evidently unhappy. "It seems I spoke in haste. My apologies."

"None needed, Jarl Laila." Eoric said, holding up a hand. "As long as the people of the Rift are protected, that is good enough for me."

The Jarl smiled a small smile at that. "You truly are a hero, Dragonborn. Be assured that I will at least mention in you in my prayers."

Eoric bowed his head. "Thank you, Jarl Laila."

"Have you dined?" The Jarl asked. "We were about to sit down to dinner, it would be an honor for you to join us."

Eoric shook his head. "I am sorry milady, but my friends are waiting for me at the Bee and Barb."

Jarl Laila sighed at the mention of the tavern, visibly slouching into herself. "Then perhaps you shall see my son there later." She put a hand to her head. "He mourns the loss of his brother by stupefying himself with mead in the tavern." She then drew herself up again, the concerned and grieving mother falling away before the Jarl. "Farewell, Dragonborn. Akatosh hold his hands over you."

Eoric nodded in thanks. "Goodbye Jarl Laila. Gods-"

His parting words were then interrupted by a large explosion.

Spinning around, hand flying to his seax as Unmid drew his sword, Eoric was confronted by a great plume of grey smoke billowing from the blown open doors of the chambers of the Court Mage Wylandriah. The mage soon appeared herself, out of the smoke, hacking and spluttering. Taking deep breaths of clean air, she noticed the entire court, even the guards, were staring at her.

"I-uh," She explained, evidently embarrassed. "I forgot to put the right ward up before mixing the ingredients."

Jarl Laila simply sighed and shook head. Turning back to her, Eoric suppressed a rueful smile. "Gods protect you, milady."

The Jarl simply nodded, before taking a large gulp of wine from the goblet on the table at her side.

Holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth to keep out the smoke, Eoric walked from the dais and left the great hall, whilst behind him servants hastily tried to stop the billowing smoke.

* * *

The man known as Cyrus Azaan was sat in a high-backed armchair of red leather, which was placed, along with its twin and a small round table upon which rested a bottle of wine and two silver goblets, in front of the roaring fireplace of his house, the charmingly named 'Honeyside'. It was decorated with the utmost taste and appreciation for the finer things. Upon his walls were Rihadan silk hangings, statues from the Imperial City itself stood in corners, finely wrought candelabras from High Rock provided illumination and incense from as far afield as Akavir itself wafted through the air.

The man himself was no less richly attired. He was dressed in a manner that reflected his origins in the Alik'r Desert, but which accommodated for the cold climate of his adopted country. He wore a well fitting shirt of soft black lamb's wool, the billowing sleeves of which he tucked into a pair of black leather bracers, edged in silver. Over his shirt he had a vest of black leather, again intricately decorated in silver thread. A thick broad belt held up wide trousers, again of black wool, which he tucked into a pair of calf-length riding boots, which curled ever so slightly at the toe. Around his head was wound a head-wrapping of soft black silk, all the way from the Elsweyr and over everything he wore a loose robe of that same material. He wore jewelry; upon his finger was a ring of Markarth silver, a signet ring bearing his personal symbol, a sunburst, and around his neck was draped a silver amulet, in the shape of the Nightingale symbol. Upon his belt were twin scimitars of silver steel, one enchanted with Ice, the other with Fire. They were housed now in scabbards of black leather.

He was a striking man, tall and lean, with a thick beard, which once a lustrous black was now shot through with silver. It was styled and jutted out from his chin, his hair that was long, but was hidden under his head-wrapping. His skin was dark, more so than many Redguards due to coming from the deep desert, and deeply lined. However his eyes, which looked out from under heavy brows, were his finest feature. They radiated power and authority in which a hundred men armed with swords could not match and when he talked his voice was low and rich, with a flavoring of an Alik'r accent. He could stop an argument in its tracks with a single word.

As he sat before the fire, idly sipping from his goblet and watching the flames dance, he thought of the man who had sent him a message that he was coming to Riften. Eoric Greystone, The Dragonborn, Champion of Skyrim. When they'd first met he'd been a bleeding man outside Nightingale Hall, wounded fighting a dragon. Unwilling to let a man die, he'd healed him, dressed his wounds and fed him until his strength returned. And so had begun one of the odder friendships of his life. On the one hand, The Dragonborn, all honor and justice, rushing headlong into danger; on the other him, one of the greatest thieves in all of Skyrim, if not Tamriel, and Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild. He liked the Nord, and helped him not out of any hope or wish of reward, but because if Eoric asked for help, refusing usually meant letting something bad happen.

That and it was poor business to make an enemy of the man who probably ate dragon steaks for breakfast. For that reason he was _persona non furtum_; he and his family were off limits for any job.

Roughly an hour ago Brynjolf had spotted him entering the city, staying at the Lioness and the engineer's house. He had no great dislike towards the city's newest Thane, she just seemed totally intransigent towards him and his organization, though that had lessened ever since a certain event around five years ago. Ten minutes previously Brynjolf had spotted him going inside Mistveil Keep so he had asked his lieutenant and fellow Nightingale to extend Eoric his invitation when he exited.

Soon enough there was a heavy knock on his door.

Standing up, he crossed to the front door and opened it. Before him stood Eoric, as strong and tall and blonde as ever. He found it amusing that Skyrim's hero just so happened to be the spitting image of the stereotypical Nord. It was lucky he didn't use an axe or it would've been a cliche too far.

"Eoric," He said with a smile. "Come in, come in."

"Cyrus." Eoric answered, clapping the Redguard on the shoulder as he came in, tapping the sides of his boots to jolt the snow off them.

Returning to his chair, Cyrus motioned for Eoric to sit. As he did so, with an audible sigh as his back touched the soft, padded leather, he poured the man a drink and refilled his own goblet.

When Eoric took the offered wine, he raised his cup. "To your health."

"And yours." Came the reply. Tasting the wine, Eoric's eyebrows rose. "Very fine, Cyrus, very fine indeed."

"Tamika Vineyards, 59 Vintage." Cyrus explained. "One of only a few dozen bottles left, but I knew you'd appreciate it."

Eoric grinned. "And I do, Cyrus, I do."

Cyrus spread his hands. "I do try to be a good host. How've you been?"

"Not bad." Eoric said, taking another drink of wine. "The forge's been doing well, can't complain."

"And how's the family, your eldest must be nearly a man now surely?"

"Aye, he is." Eoric nodded. "But he wants to stay in Rorikstead, help run the forge when I'm not there."

"A good lad," Cyrus said. He would've liked sons, but his life wasn't exactly conductive to family life. His brothers back in Hammerfell would have to carry on the line. "And how're the younger two?"

Eoric, looking into the fire, grinned. "Just as wild as ever, though Eira's the quieter." He looked back at Cyrus. "But what about you? How've you been?"

"I'm well. Things are good at the guild, Delvin's been taking a look at some old plans my predecessor's predecessor made and thinks we may be able to pull a job on the Imperial Palace."

"Sounds impressive." Eoric said, taking a sip of wine.

Cyrus rolled his eyes, Eoric was a good man but was woefully ignorant of the complexity of even the smallest bit of burglary. Such a feat, heisting the Imperial Palace, hadn't been done since the Third Era, by the Grey Fox himself! 'Impressive' didn't begin to cover it. Draining the last of the wine in his cup, he turned to the man beside him.

"So, I suppose we should talk about what you asked me to find out?" He said, placing his goblet back on the table. He didn't drink and talk business at the same time.

Eoric too set down his cup. "Have you found anything?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. "I'm afraid not. Whoever's doing this is good at covering their movements. But I can tell you who it's not."

Eoric's brow furrowed. If they could escape Cyrus' spies, they had to be good. "So who _isn't _it?"

"Well," Cyrus began, sitting back in his chair. "It's not any of the bandit clans, if anybody had seized as many military supplies as we're talking, they'd be making a power play. It''s not the Imperials, the Tenth Legion is still firmly entrenched at Bruma and none of the others have been redeployed. It's not even the Stronghold Orcs, which was what I was betting on. They haven't left their forts for months. Something about 'A Time of Trials', I don't know what that is."

"It's a time, every five years or so, when the youngest of the clans are tested to see whether they are worthy of the name of Orc." Eoric explained, surprisingly. "Trials of heat, trials of cold, trials of hunger. That kind of thing."

Cyrus shot a glance at Eoric, eyebrow raised in questioning.

"I'm known as Blood-Kin to the Orcs, you don't get that way without learning a bit about their culture."

"I'm sorry I couldn't find out who's behind it, Eoric."

The Nord shrugged. "Think nothing of it, it was a long shot anyway." The two men sat in silence for a moment, before Eoric spoke again. "What's the problem with Maul, by the way?"

"The deal with Maul?" Cyrus asked, refilling the two goblets with the last of the wine as he did so. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since I stopped Alduin, he seems to have gotten more bad-tempered." Eoric elaborated.

That elicited a chuckle from Cyrus. "Ah, that. That probably has something to do with me cutting Maven off from Guild assistance. Poor fellow's being run ragged." He held out a goblet to Eoric.

"You cut Maven off?" Eoric said, suppressing a smirk as he took the drink.

"I did. Not long after you beat Alduin. I always meant to, as soon as I became Guild Master. One day she sends for me, asks to come see her at that manor of her's outside town." He took a sip of wine. "She demands that I bring down Bolli, you know the one who owns the Riften Fishery? She says that his charitable nature displeases her, that and she wants the Fishery for herself." He noticed Eoric's hand tighten around the goblet. "Mind the silver Eoric, it's an antique. Anyway, I tell her no. I have no quarrel with Bolli, he's a good man, and besides I serve no mistress save one." His hand unconsciously closed around his amulet.

"Can't imagine that pleased her." Eoric said.

"No," Cyrus nodded slightly. "No, it did not. But she wasn't really angry until the next day. But I suppose having _all _of your clothes stolen and hung around town would make anybody a bit miffed."

At that Eoric broke out laughing, Cyrus joining in with a rich chuckle. Putting a hand over his mouth to stop the laughing, Eoric spoke. "You didn't."

Cyrus adopted an innocent tone. "Me? No." Then a sly smile spread across his face. "Thrynn, Vipir and Niruin did it."

Laughter rang out again. Finally, once all the wine was gone and stories finished, the two men stood and clasped wrists.

"It was good to see you again Cyrus," Eoric said, smiling. "You're the most honest thief I've ever met."

Cyrus darted his eyes to and fro exaggeratedly, before whispering. "Don't let anybody else hear that. I have a reputation to uphold."

Releasing the clasp, Eoric laughed. "Well, I must be gone. My friends'll be wondering I've gone."

Cyrus raised his eyebrows. "Ah yes! Mustn't keep our Thane, The Lioness, waiting."

"Be nice, Cyrus." Eoric said, raising an eyebrow in reproach. "Her heart's in the right place."

Cyrus rolled his eyes again. "I know, I know. See you soon."

"Goodbye." And with that, Eoric walked to the door while Cyrus returned to his chair.

But before Eoric could leave, Cyrus spoke up, this time his voice serious.

"Eoric?" He said, turning around to look at the Nord. "I count you as a friend, but don't ever manhandle my men again."

Nodding, Eoric opened the door and walked back out into the snow.

* * *

Seated against the wall of the Bee and Barb, opposite the bar, with the empty chair whose back was to the wall being fiercely guarded against any and all who might try to nab it, Hakon and the others were having a whale of a time. Thorek and Mjoll were having a great evening, swapping stories of their exploits in friendly competition whilst he and Aerin simply listened, occasionally talking between themselves or interjecting about one point or another. While waiting for Eoric they had snacked on a small platter of meat, bread and cheese, but had no such restraint with the drink; three empty tankards of what had been varying drinks surrounded each of them. All around them there were people, the tavern was heaving with what seemed all of Riften: meadery workers, fishermen, the local merchants; all were here and all were drinking and merrymaking. Apparently tonight the owners, an amiable Argonian couple, had procured some entertainment for the night; a pair of singers, though they had not yet started; at the moment the tavern's trio of musicians were plying their trade.

Thorek was finishing a tale of his younger days; he had been in Valenwood and had killed the chief Thalmor magistrate there after freeing a group of Bosmer about to be killed in the purges the Dominion liked to keep quiet. Eager to get to safety, he had led the Bosmer north, aiming to get them to Hammerfell, where the Dominion had no power whatsoever after their defeat in the War of Stros M'kai, pursued all the way by Thalmor hunters.

"-little did the bastard know that I had a knife in my boot, so when he looked at Therillon, I grabbed it and rammed it through his eye!" Thorek finished, laughing and downing what was left in his fourth tankard of mead. Exhaling, he continued. "After that we made it to Rihada, I gave them some coin, told them to see a friend of mine, a silk merchant, and went on my way."

"And the Thalmor let you be?" Mjoll asked, incredulous. "Few who cross the Thalmor get away with it."

"Well," Thorek answered, tilting his head slightly. "Rarely does 'crossing' them mean killing five of their assassination squads and one freelancer. I don't doubt my name's on a list _somewhere _with a label saying 'Kill on Sight', but so far no Thalmor's had the stones to do it."

"Well I salute you!" Aerin, downing his own fourth tankard of mead, however being an Imperial the Nordic brew was hitting him harder. "Few enough of my kin had your courage, bloody Thalmor bastards..." Suddenly he surged from his seat and wheeled around to face the crowded room. "Bloody Thalmor bastards, eh!"

In response the whole room roared in agreement, more than a few raising their mugs in improvised toasts.

"Aerin!" Mjoll hissed, pulling back down into his seat.

At that moment the door opened, though Hakon had his back to it did not see it but he definitely felt it as the cold air momentarily rushed in and certainly _heard _it as other patrons yelled at the newcomer to close the damned thing. However Thorek, who was across from him got up and waved. Turning around, he saw that Eoric had entered and was now threading his way through the crowd towards them.

"Alright everyone?" He said cheerfully, clapping Hakon on the back as he made his way to the empty chair.

"Capital, Eoric!" Aerin slurred. "We are all...capital."

Grinning, Eoric looked around the table as he sat down, reverse his chair as he did so. Thorek had explained to him that the reason he, Eoric and Ralof reversed their chairs before sitting down was that it was an old soldier's trick that allowed a man to get to his feet easier in case of trouble whilst also keeping a plank of wood over your gut.

"How much has he had?" Eoric asked, pointing a finger at the swaying Imperial.

"Four pints." Mjoll answered. "Mead."

Eoric shook his head.

At that moment Talen-Jei, the male Argonian barkeep came over, having spotted the final member of their party arrive.

"Well I see you're all here," He said, trying to be upbeat despite having to contend with a full tavern. "What can I get you all?" Looking at them all he noticed who the new arrival was. Then a genuine smile broke out across his face. "Eoric! It's good to see you."

"Talen," Eoric replied, smiling and nodding his head in greeting. "Good to see you again. What have you got for me?"

"Well," The Argonian began. "We have a casserole of spiced lamb in a red wine sauce, a hearty stew of beef and root vegetables, salted pork with parsnips and peppered chicken, served with potatoes and a light cheese sauce. Lastly we have a roasted leg of Ox, cooked in its own juices with rosemary."

"Ooh," Eoric exhaled, stroking at his beard. "You give me a torturous choice Talen." After a few moments of further beard stroking, he made his decision. "I'll have the lamb casserole."

"Thought you might," Talen said, noting the choice down mentally. "Everyone else?"

Aerin shot in first. "I-I'll have that pork and parsnips dish." He looked around at the assembled group, a cheery smile on his face. "Sounds good, nay?"

Moving on, Mjoll ordered. "I'll have the peppered chicken, thank you."

"And I'll have the ox leg." Thorek answered.

The barkeep then turned to Hakon. "And you, sir?"

"I'll have the beef stew, if that's alright."

"No problem." Talen-Jei said, smiling. "And for drinks?"

"Eoric?" Hakon asked, he'd ordered first so it seemed only right that he choose his drink first.

In response the blonde Nord nodded, before turning to Talen. "What specials do you think I'd like?"

The Argonian paused for a second, before a sly smile came to his scaled face. "I think I have just the thing. I call it 'A Brightflame'. It's equal parts Ashfire Mead, Dragon's Fire Mead and Firebrand Wine; all mixed and served in a drinking horn. It's supposed to be drunk in one, so the _'tradition' _goes."

A gleam came into the Dragonborn's eyes then. "I'll have one of those, I think."

"And so shhall I!" Aerin slurred, before his head hit the edge of the table. Hakon then noticed Eoric shake his head, before mouthing the word _"water"_.

Around the table everybody, save Aerin, ordered refills. Eoric also ordered a tankard of mead, so as to sate him once he was done drinking the 'Brightflame'.

"So," Eoric asked as Talen-Jei departed. "What's been going on whilst I've been away?"

"Thorek and Mjoll have been comparing stories." Hakon answered, grinning slightly as Thorek had to grab Aerin as he nearly tumbled out of his seat.

"Oh really?" Eoric asked, arching an eyebrow before looking over at Mjoll. "Have you told the one about when we faced Caradoc?"

Hakon saw Mjoll's eyes brighten, as she probably remembered what Eoric was talking about. "No, I haven't told them that one. Do you want to tell it, or shall I?

The Dragonborn smiled slightly. "Would you mind if I did?"

"No no, not at all." The Lioness replied, reaching for the last of her mead as she did so. "Go ahead."

"Well," The Dragonborn began, looking around the table as he did so. "It was during the Dragon Crisis and me and Mjoll were fighting the Forsworn of the Reach." His gaze shifted to Hakon. "You know who the Forsworn are, right lad?"

Hakon nodded. The Forsworn were Bretons who claimed the Reach was their land and fought anybody who said otherwise. King Ulfric had defeated them when they had occupied Markarth years ago and it was said they used black magic.

"Anyway," Eoric continued. "Me and Mjoll were going after them and we hit a tower that they'd fortified. Cut through the camp at its base easily enough, bastards didn't know what hit 'em. Fought our way up it, though the Forsworn gave us a tough time of it, wouldn't budge an inch. Finally get to the top and there we find Caradoc. He was the Forsworn's leader, after I killed his predecessor Madanach anyway." Hakon moved to ask about that, as he'd heard many conflicting stories about that over the years, but Eoric checked him with a shake of his hand. "I'll tell that one later. Anyway, he was a mean looking one; long red hair, big beard. He had with him a Hagraven and a pair of Briarhearts."

"Briarhearts?" Hakon interjected.

"Undead warriors laddie," Thorek answered. "The Hagravens take a Forsworn warrior's heart and replace it with a Briarheart. Makes them immune to both pain and fear."

Lip curling in disgust at such a practice, Hakon continued listening as Eoric spoke.

"So Caradoc starts raving and ranting. Saying after when he's done with us the Reach will be his, you know the same thing all would be conquerors go on about." He then looked over at Mjoll, who looked away from Aerin, who had sunken back against his chair, his head lolling over the backrest, to meet his gaze.

_Had there been something between them? _Hakon found himself thinking. Mjoll did seem to talk of him with more affection than just that of good friends; it had to be in the past though, he couldn't see Eoric betraying his wife.

"Mjoll," Eoric said, scratching at his temple. "What happened then? I forget."

Mjoll shot him a sardonic smile. "Like hell you do. You just nodded along and then you threw your greatsword at him. Took him straight through the head and sent him flying off the tower!"

An exaggerated look of recognition crossed Eoric's face. "Ah yes, now I remember. Then you and I took the rest of them together, you with your axe and me with my knife."

At that Hakon raised an eyebrow. _Axe? _He could've sworn he'd seen her with a greatsword, not an axe.

"Do you remember throwing that Hagraven off the tower?" Mjoll asked, which sent wide-eyed stares from both Hakon and Thorek straight in Eoric's direction.

In response The Dragonborn simply shrugged. "I wanted to see if Hagravens could fly. Turns out their feathers are just for show."

That brought peals of laughter from both Hakon and Thorek, so much so that Aerin's head shot back up again.

Thorek moved to begin another story, but then Talen-Jei's voice carried over the sounds of the crowded inn. "Ladies and gentlemen!" He announced, silencing all. "One amongst us here has chosen to try and drink the most potent, fiery drink I have ever created." Taking a large drinking horn from the hands of the tavern's only barmaid, Talen held it aloft. "The Brightflame!"

From around the inn there was wooping and hollering as Talen-Jei made his way across the floor, most of his patrons getting out of his way in a form of mock awe and respect. Walking up to Eoric, who stood up as he approached, Talen spoke again. "Everybody here knows that the challenge is to drink this brew in one. Do you accept this challenge?"

Eoric seemed to pause for but a moment, looking at the amber liquid within the drinking horn. It looked, appropriately enough, like molten fire. Then, taking the drinking horn from the Argonian, Eoric too held it up for all to see.

"I accept the challenge!" He called, to cheers and whistling.

Then, the inn falling silent one more, he took the horn to his lips and began to drink. For several silent moments he drank, great gulp after great gulp sending more of the potent liquid down his gullet until at last he finished. With a mighty exhale that sounded closer to a roar than any sound of man, he slammed the drinking horn upside down onto the table. The entire inn erupted into more cheers and more than a few coins changed hands as hastily made bets were won and lost.

"Very impressive, Eoric." Talen-Jei said, scooping up the drinking horn. "Maybe only five others have managed that."

"I do my best." Eoric shrugged whilst opposite him Mjoll just sat, shaking her head with a knowing smile on her face.

"Your food'll be ready in a moment." Talen said, before heading back to the bar.

True to his word, Talen-Jei returned not long after with the food, as well as the latest order of drinks. The group's meal was a comfortable one, punctuated by light comments about this or that as they ate. Hakon found the stew to his liking; the meat of good quality and lean and the gravy rich and well flavored. Across the table, Aerin was wolfing down his meal of pork and parsnips like a man who hadn't eaten in months, whilst Thorek simply picked up his roast leg of ox by the bone and attacked it.

Eventually Eoric fell into tale telling again. He had seen Hakon's eyebrow shift at the mention of Mjoll wielding an axe and so told the story of how he had retrieved her sword, Grimsever, from a Dwemer ruin call Mzinchaleft. It seemed quite an ordeal, traversing Dwemer traps and fighting off their ancient defenses, before coming face to face with a Dwemer Centurion. Hakon had heard of such constructs; fifteen feet of dwarven metal and armed to the teeth. He hoped he'd never have to fight one. As he brought the tale to a close, Talen-Jei once again raised his voice above those of his patrons.

"Everybody!" The barkeep called out. "Now I'm sure you all've heard that we have some special entertainment tonight; a pair of traveling singers." There was a chorus of murmuring. "May I know introduce the first of our guests; Cantus Valerius!"

Another round of murmuring greeted the Imperial name as the man to whom it belonged jumped upon an empty table. He was tall and thin; to Hakon's eyes perhaps closer to thirty than twenty, with a thin anchor-like beard and long brown hair that he swept back from his face and covered with a triangular leather hat, which was decorated with a white feather. He was dressed in a blue tunic, edged in gold thread, over a grey undershirt and a pair of brown trousers, tucked into a pair of fancy riding boots. He looked more like a princeling than a singer.

"Hello everyone!" He called out in a clear, even voice. "Now _I know_, I'm an Imperial. But I hope you let me sing a few songs before you start throwing things."

"The get on with it!" A patron yelled out, his speech slurred.

"I will, sir! But first," With that he doffed his cap and set it upside down on the table. "If any of you find yourselves wishing to show your appreciation, please, place the money here."

Then, the tavern's musicians accompanying him, the minstrel launched into the old favorite 'Ragnar the Red'. He sang it well, Hakon supposed, his voice light and clear with no trembling in it to mar the performance. As he continued to sing other old favorites around the tavern a few bold or sotted patrons sang along, however most returned to their own conversations, happy to just let him become a new form of background noise.

Their table was one such one. As the tavern's one barmaid tidied up their table and replaced the candle that was burning low Eoric told them what the Jarl had said before Thorek spoke of his travels in Summerset Isle. Hakon found it interesting, learning of a place he'd never been and now probably never would, what with the Thalmor seemingly declaring against non-Mer people in Tamriel. Thorek talked at length, eventually coming to describe a town he had visited whilst there.

"Solitar," He explained, as the singer carried on, now singing a song about a mage who tried to woo some fair maid with the aid of his lackwit apprentice. "Lovely town, its name means 'The Light of the Sun' in High Elven. Rather small but the lands of the lord who owned it extended over miles and miles. Good man he was too, that lord, went by the name of Valraion. He was an old fellow, even by Altmer standards, but still all there." He tapped his temple. "He'd had a tough life though, apparently his wife had died giving birth to his only son. And his son?" Thorek shook his head slightly. "He's a magical null. Very rare amongst Altmer, to be unable to use magic. Very looked down on. But the old elf didn't care, and his son was as fine an elf as his father. Very honorable, and a fine warrior. Atharion he's called, named for one of the great Elven heroes, the one who became the Nerevarine."

"The what?" Aerin spoke up, gazing into goblet of cool, clear water that he'd been given.

"The Nerevarine, lad." Thorek repeated.

"What's that?" Aerin slurred.

"Aerin, you know who the Nerevarine is." Eoric interjected, his voice low and like that of teacher. "He's the Hero of Morrowind, the one who defeated Dagoth Ur, the one who-"

Suddenly Eoric stopped talking and his face became very grave. To Hakon it looked like an iron portcullis had slammed down, robbing his expression of all jollity. His eyes became very cold and his hand visibly tightened around his tankard of mead, his knuckles white with effort. Hakon wondered what on Nirn had made him so, had he been poisoned? But then his ears tuned back into the minstrel's song and he understood as he heard it. It was a relatively new one, written just after the Dragon Crisis and it was quite possibly the worst song to sing, unknowingly or not, in the presence of The Dragonborn.

"Oh the Dragonborn's wife was as fair as the sun,

And her kisses were warmer than spring,

But the Dragonborn's sword was made of black steel

And its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dragonborn's wife would sing as she bathed,

With a voice as sweet as a peach,

But The Dragonborn's blade has a song of its own,

And a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

As he lay on the ground, with darkness around

The taste of blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and bade him a prayer

And he smiled and he laughed and he sung

'O brothers, O brothers my days here are done,

The Dragonborn's taken my life.

But what does it matter for all men must die,

And I tasted the Dragonborn's wife!'

'O brothers, O brothers my days here a' done,

The Dragonborn's taken my life.

But what does it matter for all men must die,

And I tasted the Dragonborn's wife!"

As the singer started again for another go of it, Talen-Jei, looking quite disturbed and worried, hurried over to the table. Leaning his fists against the table, the Argonian spoke in hushed tones.

"I'm so sorry Eoric," He explained hurriedly. "I had no idea he was going to sing that. If I had I wouldn't have sent him on his way. You know I would."

At first it seemed Eoric hadn't heard him, as he just stared straight through the barkeep to where Cantus was still singing. But then he looked up, meeting Talen's eyes, and his expression softened, a small half-smile appeared and his hand loosened its grip on the tankard.

"It's alright Talen." He said, his voice neutral. "Such songs will always be sung, so long as men have voices to sing. I know it isn't true."

Talen-Jei visibly relaxed and Hakon couldn't blame him. An angry Dragonborn would not be a good thing to have in your tavern. The Argonian then nodded. "Even still, you're next round is on the house."

"Thank you Talen." Eoric answered before looking around the table. "Same again?"

Everybody nodded in reply.

"So just the same again Talen." Eoric said. "But I think I'll have a goblet of Firebrand wine instead."

"I'll send it over." Talen-Jei agreed, before heading off back into the crowd. As he passed by Cantus, who was about to launch into the repeated verse of the song, he grabbed his attention and then quickly jerked his hand across his throat.

Looking back up, Cantus called out to the crowd. "Well everybody, looks my time is up." At that announcement there was a rumble of discontent, but also a few catcalls. "But never fear! You still have a treat to look forward to." He then hopped off the table he had stood upon, but left the hat, which was now lined with gold coins. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my partner, a lovely girl with a lovely voice, Kara!"

As the other singer, a Nord, leapt up onto the table, one thought went around and around in his head.

By the gods she's beautiful.

And she was. She was younger than Cantus, more around his own age, with long flowing locks of raven black hair that reached below her shoulders; pale skin that was unusual in one who lived their life on the road and a pair of blue eyes, brilliant and shining. She was dressed in a loose shirt of blue silk and a pair of leather trousers that were laced up at the side, emphasizing her magnificent legs.

Hakon was suddenly aware he was being stared at.

Turning his head, he saw that Thorek, Mjoll and Eoric were all looking at him, all of them wearing smiles that were trying very hard not to turn into smirks. Aerin was now napping, resting his head on his arm.

"What?" He asked them, as Kara made her introduction.

"Huh?" Thorek said, pretending to be oblivious. "What are you talking about lad?"

"Why were you staring at me?" He asked again.

"It's nothing Hakon," Mjoll answered. "It's nothing."

"It's just that it's been a long time since we've seen young love." Eoric managed to get out before the three of them burst out laughing.

Their laughter and Hakon's reply died out however, as Kara began to sing. Her song was an old one, but one which had come into prominence once more after the Dragon Crisis. The Tale of the Tongues.

"Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky.

His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.

Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died.

They burned and they bled, as they issued their cries

She sung it exquisitely, accompanied only by a lute, with a voice clear and beautiful. Around the tavern conversations died as all listened.

We need saviors to free us, from Alduin's rage.

Heroes on the field, of this new war to wage.

And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world.

Lost in the shadow, of the black wings unfurled.

This was one of Skyrim's oldest songs, a song of the Dragon Wars of the Merethic Era. Of how Alduin and his brothers were overthrown. All knew the words, but none had ever heard them sung so perfectly.

But then came the Tongues on that terrible day.

Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray.

And all heard the music, of Alduin's doom.

The sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering Thu'um.

Looking to his comrades, Hakon saw that Eoric had a strange look upon his face. Though he could not know it, The Dragonborn was lost in the halls of memory. Kara's singing had sent him there. Once more he was in Sovngarde, alongside the Tongues, battling The World Eater.

And so the Tongues freed us, from Alduin's rage.

Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age.

If Alduin is eternal, then eternity's done.

For his story is over and the dragons are gone."

As her voice faded and her song ended, the entire tavern erupted in rapturous applause. Everyone around their table surged to their feet and applauded, which woke Aerin from his slumber with a jolt.

"Thank you, everyone." Kara said, before flashing a smile. "Let's see if I can get the same reaction with the next one."

All roared in agreement.

And so it went on for more than an hour, Kara singing whilst the whole tavern just sat and listened, the only words being people quietly ordering more drinks. Hakon had never seen anything like it; a single singer bringing an entire tavern to silence for any length of time. The night wore on until, finally, after a stirring rendition of 'The Age of Oppression', a song still sung despite the victory of the rebellion, Kara spoke.

"Well friends, thank you for listening to me sing, but I think that's all for tonight."

That statement was immediately greeted by a chorus of moans and calls for more, from all corners of the tavern.

"I'm sorry everyone." Kara called as she jumped lightly off the table. "But a girl has to get some rest." She then swiped the hat, which was overflowing with gold, off the table. "But I reckon the band'll keep you entertained," She turned to look at the tavern's regular players. "Won't you lads?"

The band leader, a bald, thickset Nord who played the drum, sighed exaggeratedly before launching back into playing with gusto, whilst Kara walked over to the table her fellow singer had sat down at, against the left hand wall from the perspective of the bar.

Over the next hour, as the band played on, the inn began to empty as those who had to get up early drifted away to their homes, or Haelga's Bunkhouse. Eventually those who were left were either travelers, those who owned their own businesses or those who didn't care as long as their was coin in their pockets and drink to be had. Hakon, Eoric, Thorek, Mjoll and Aerin stayed on, passing the time with talk and more stories, even Aerin chimed in, talking of the proper way to build a fortress when the Thorek had spoken of the time he was in a siege during the Great War.

"- and that's why Bruma actually isn't as good a fortification as they say it is. The town's grown too big outside the walls, any attacker'd have cover all the way to the walls if they wanted to get ladders up."

"Well Bruma's practically a Legion base now laddie." Thorek said, taking a swig of mead. "Has been ever since Skyrim became independent. Whole Tenth Legion's there now, or was last time I passed by. They've put extra defenses up; wooden palisades all around the town."

"Pah!" Aerin shot back. "I've never seen a palisades hold up to a determined enemy, Legion soldiers manning it or no."

"Well then, it's a good job nobody's at war then." Thorek said. "Because it's always the innocents that get hit hardest during war."

"Aye." Hakon said, before taking a drink of mead, which drained his tankard completely. "Well," He said, slapping the table lightly. "That's me finished, who's up for another?"

"I could go for another." Mjoll said, as she finished draining the dregs of her own drink.

"Just a half-tankard for me lad." Thorek said, brushing mead from his lips. "I know when I'm reaching my fill."

"Another mead for me please." Aerin said, before furrowing his brow. "Actually better make that a half."

"Eoric?" Hakon said, turning to the blonde Nord.

"Aye lad," He said, nodding. "I'll have another Firebrand."

"Alright." Hakon said, getting up from his chair. The inn's only serving girl was busy dealing with another table, as was Talen-Jei, so it made more sense just to go to the bar himself.

"Tell Keerava to put it all on my tab!" Eoric called after him.

"I will." Hakon said over his shoulder.

Walking up to the bar, Hakon waited as Keerava finished serving another customer. Once he was walking away with his drink, she came to him.

"What can I get for you?" She asked, idly rubbing at a stain on the bar with a rag.

"I'll have two tankards of mead, two half-tankards and a goblet of Firebrand wine." Hakon said, mentally checking them off as he did so.

"That'll be thirty-five Septims." Keerava explained.

"Eoric said to put on his tab." Hakon replied, turning to point him out. Seeing this Eoric waved.

"Ah, I see." Keerava said, nodding. She then proceeded to serve up the tankards of mead, placing them on a tray, as well as a pewter goblet. "Just a moment, I'll just to get the Firebrand from the back."

"No problem." Hakon said, as Keerava left the bar.

As he waited for the last of the drinks, Kara, the singer, walked up to the bar and leant on it next to him, absently waiting for someone to take her order. After a moment of silence, Hakon spoke up.

"Hello there." He said, though his heart was pounding inside his chest. When he'd gone to taverns with his friends in Northpoint, talking to pretty girls had never been his thing. Mikken, with his blonde hair and easy smile, had been the charmer.

Thankfully she replied. "Hello." She said, turning to face him.

"I just wanted to say that your singing was amazing." He said, truthfully.

"Thank you." She said with a smile. "Though I've got to say it was the first time it's stopped a tavern in its tracks."

"I'm shocked, I would've that would be an everyday occurrence for you." Hakon replied, the alcohol in his blood thankfully overpowering his nervousness.

"I'm afraid not." She said, laughing lightly. "But thank you for the compliment." She paused then, and Hakon got the feeling he was getting checked out. "What's your name?"

"Hakon." He answered.

"Nice to meet you, Hakon. I'm Kara, just in case you didn't hear Cantus' introduction." Kara said, with warmth. She then looked at the tray of drinks on the bar in front of him. "That's a lot of mead."

"Well I'm with some friends of mine." Hakon said, turning and pointing out his table. Once again Eoric saw the gesture and waved.

"I see." Kara answered, giving a small wave back.

At that moment Keerava came back out of the back, a bottle of Firebrand in her hand. "Here we are!" She said, pouring the wine into the goblet.

"Well," Hakon said, lifting the now heavy tray. "It was nice talking to you, Kara."

"It was nice talking to you too, Hakon." The beautiful singer replied. "Bye."

"Bye." Hakon replied, before going on his way. Behind him Kara smiled before turning to make her order.

As he walked back to the table, Hakon kept a careful watch on anything that could trip him or else cause him to drop the tray of drinks; empty chairs, coats or cloaks on the floor and the the like. What he was not expecting was a man sliding his chair back into him with force as he got up. As the chair slammed into his leg he lost his grip on the tray and the contents of the various tankards and the pewter goblet went, guided by some perverse quirk of universal justice, right over the man who'd slid his chair into him.

He was not best pleased.

Wheeling around, hair and clothes dripping with wine and mead, he fixed Hakon with a piercing glare. He was tall and stocky, clean-shaven with auburn hair and dressed in finery. At his side was a steel longsword.

"What the hell do you think you are doing, you damned idiot!" He yelled, roiling with anger.

"Me?!" Hakon replied, unwilling to take abuse for something that wasn't his fault. "You knocked into me!"

"You insolent bloody pleb! Don't you have any idea who I am?" The man demanded. Around them drinks and food had been put down as the inn's other patrons turned to look at the brewing argument.

"I know you're some jumped-up drunken wretch with more money than brains!" Hakon retorted, anger filling his mind, alcohol already having lessened his inhibitions.

"I'll have you thrown in the damned dungeons you little shit!"

"I doubt you even know where they are." Hakon threw back. "I doubt you could even find your arse with both hands!"

At that the drunk's hand fell to the hilt of his longsword, whilst Hakon's curled around his dagger.

"ENOUGH!"

The Dragonborn's voice nearly shook the inn with its power, causing both men to let their hands drop to their sides as they turned in the direction of the command.

Surging from his seat, Eoric strode up to the two men, his eyes hard and fury written clear on his face. Curling one hand around Hakon's collar he put him, not too gently, up against a wooden pillar.

"Are you a fool boy?" He hissed, baring his teeth. "Getting into an argument over a few drinks?" Before Hakon could reply, Eoric silenced him with a finger. "Never argue with a drunk, you think your the better man? Then be one and walk away." Behind him the sotted man started to back away, a fearful look in his eye. But releasing Hakon, Eoric wheeled around.

"You just stay right where you are Harrald Law-Giver or by the gods I'll know you for a coward!" Striding up to him, he towered over the nobleman. "You're to be the next Jarl of Riften after your mother and here you sit, drinking yourself stupid and getting into fights! Show some damned honor, you sodden fool." He fixed him with a withering look. "And don't ever call upon your rank as a threat again. A man who does that is no man at all." He jerked his head over his shoulder. "Go."

Looking around at all those who had just seen him publicly scolded like a naughty child, including two travelers who would spread the story across the breadth of Skyrim, Harrald Law-Giver slunk from the tavern, slamming the door on his way out.

Throwing Hakon one last disapproving look, Eoric took two coin pouches and threw them to Talen-Jei, who caught them expertly.

"That should see my tab clear, Talen." He called, whilst around him the other patrons just watched. "I'll be back for my change tomorrow."

Understanding his intent, all the others rose from their seats and made for the exit. Along with Hakon, Eoric did so as well. But as he passed the table that belonged to Kara and Cantus, he paused, while Hakon moved on ahead. Taking the last of the small coin-purses from inside his longcoat, he dropped it on the table.

"Your singing was very fine, lass." He said, his voice regaining its warmth. "I thank you for it."

The young singer was momentarily speechless. "Thank you, sir." She said, looking up at the man who ordered a Jarl's son to bed. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"It's Eoric Greystone, lass." He replied, at which Cantus shrunk into his seat, face going pale.

Kara however, smiled slightly. "I suppose you could be no other."

At that Eoric too smiled. "I suppose not. Goodnight lass."

And with a final nod farewell, The Dragonborn strode from the tavern. Only when the door closed behind him did the room fill once more with conversation.

Later that night, Aerin was awoken from his slumber my a noise. Having spent a long time living in the heartland of the Thieves Guild, he had developed a lighter sleep than even most soldiers. He got up and immediately regretted it. Even if the earlier events of the night weren't an nebulous blur in his mind, the fact he had drunk to much was made abundantly clear by the fact it felt like someone had riveted a hot bar of metal onto his forehead and temples.

Groping around in the dark, he donned a light bed robe and made his way silently down the stairs, a small cudgel in hand. It was probably some new thief, who'd heard about his special lockbox and wanted to prove themselves.

"Well good luck." He thought to himself as he padded down the basement stairs.

But what he saw when he got to the bottom was no thief. It was a man, dressed in robes and hooded. In his hands was a dagger of steel that glinted in the low-light. As Aerin surged forward, a yell building in his throat, the assassin raised the blade and sent it screaming downwards.

Straight towards the sleeping form of Eoric Greystone.

* * *

**A/N: Dun dun dun!**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm just going to take this moment here to elaborate on a few things, meta-wise.**

**1. My version of Skyrim is greatly expanded in terms of size, hence the reason it's taken them three days to get to Riften. (For those who thinks that actually too little time, it took Harold Godwinson's army roughly three days to _run_ from the south coast to the Battle of Stamford bridge in the north of England)**

**2. Yes, I've pulled the old fan-fix chestnut of turning Grimsever into a greatsword, due to the fact that she has a higher possible Two-Handed skill in game. I have done it and will defend that position unless I hear a decent reason why a woman who named her sword and would marry the guy who brought it back to her would not be as skilled with it as with an Iron ****battle-axe. **

**3. 'The Dragonborn's Wife' is a almost direct rip of 'The Dornishman's Wife' from A Song of Ice and Fire by GRR Martin. I'm not proud of doing so, but hey I needed a song that would get Eoric a bit angry and otherwise show that being the latest hero of the world isn't sometimes all it's cracked up to be and the Dornishman's Wife, with it's talk of a sword of black steel fitted the bill. Check out christocakes' version on YouTube to get a feel of the song.**

**4. I hope this chapter, as well as moving the plot along slightly, served not only to illustrate the extended size of Skyrim, but also to make it seem more organic (e.g Aerin actually having a job, as well as growing a beard etc)**

**5. No. Before anybody asks, Cyrus is not a Dragonborn as well. He just happens to be the guy who completed the Thieves Guild quest line in this version of Skyrim.**

**I think that's everything. So see you for now, kindly read, review, or PM me if you like with any questions queries and other such things (preferably beginning with Q).**

**Wolfbane**


	7. Chapter 6

**(Sorry for the long wait everybody, family and summer got in the way. But hey, here's a double whammy to make up. First here's the new chapter and secondly I've redone the Prologue to make it more than just a simple retread of the summary. Enjoy!)**

**Chapter 6**

For roughly a decade of his life, Eoric Greystone had been a warrior, either serving in a sellsword company, working amongst The Companions or fighting in the ranks of the Stormcloak Army. Over those years he had developed many talents; his skill with a greatsword, his ease at wearing the heaviest armors and indeed a small talent for strategy. But out of all those skills there was one thing that had developed that undoubtedly had saved his life time and time again.

That was being a light sleeper, even when sleeping off alcohol.

Awakened by a cry, Eoric's eyes snapped open and immediately focussed on the black garbed figure driving a knife downwards towards him. Instinct given the reins over conscious thought, he rolled quickly to the side, the steel blade biting into the stone floor. Again the assassin came at him, but having lost the element of surprise he was vulnerable. Breathing deep, Eoric summoned the power of the Thu'um once more.

"FUS!" He shouted, adding no more Words of Power to the shout for, due to his training with the Greybeards, the extra power could've damaged the house itself.

The Shout was powerful enough anyway, scattering the party's equipment it sent the assassin flying through the air as he felt the power of The Dragonborn. His own underhanded skills however allowed him to turn what would have been a near fatal landing into a tumble, coming to rest at the foot of the stairs, which Aerin had vacated as he had half jumped-half been thrown backwards by Eoric's shout.

Rising to his feet the assassin narrowed his eyes as the situation turned against him. Before him was an awake and angry Dragonborn, as well as his two companions who now scrambled for their weapons. The Dragonborn himself did not reach for neither his sword, knife nor his bow; for he needed no other weapon than his own voice. He was not even armored, dressed only in a pair of woolen trousers.

Looking into the man's eyes, the assassin saw death staring back and decided it was best to run. Aerin, seeing the would-be killer trying to escape, attempted to stop him, taking a low stance like Mjoll had taught him and holding his arms wide to tackle the villain. But the assassin simply barged into him at a run, knocking him aside. He reached out and grabbed at the man's robe, getting a fistful of black fabric, but the assassin wheeled and slashed at Aerin's arm. Though the blade did not cut deep, the pain and shock was sufficient to make him release the man.

Seeing the assassin flee, Eoric and the rest charged after him; Hakon with his war axe and Thorek with his longsword. As they ran across the room, Eoric bent and swept up his war bow and his quiver, which he slung over his bare chest. He began stringing it as they rushed upstairs, Aerin recovering from the shock of his first injury and following on behind. In the main room of the house they were met by Mjoll, who had been awoken by Eoric's shout and who held Grimsever in her hand.

The assassin made good pace, as the group burst out the front door, he was already meters away, running through fresh-fallen snow towards the front gate. Nobody was around, the assassin had timed his attack well, between the changing of the guard patrols. Only the gate guard remained on duty and now beheld a curious sight indeed; a group of people, all in various forms of undress, chasing after a robed and hooded man with weapons drawn.

At that moment Eoric skidded to a halt whilst the others ran on, all desperate to catch their assailant. Reaching behind his back, he drew an arrow from his quiver. It was well made and viciously barbed, like most of his weapons made in the style of the ancient Nords. Nocking it, he called out to his companions.

"Everyone get clear!" His voice boomed in the still night air.

In response everyone instantly moved to the side, giving him a clear avenue of sight to the fleeing assassin, who was closing fast on the gate guard, knife shimmering in the light of the moon. If he got over the wall he'd be gone, a ghost in the countryside of the Rift; they'd never find him. But Eoric wasn't going to let that happen. In one smooth movement, he pulled back the great war bow, sighted and released. The barbed arrow screamed as it sped through the cold night air and slammed high into the assassin's back.

Back arching in pain, the assassin tumbled into the snow, the dagger falling from his hand. He struggled to even scream as the air was forced from his lungs from the impact. As the group approached him he scrabbled wildly, trying to find the arrow embedded in his back. Then he began to couch, a wet hacking cough, and blood spurted out across the pristine snow as his lungs began to fill. By the time the group had walked up to the fallen killer, he was dead.

As Eoric pulled the arrow from the assassin's back and began cleaning it of blood and flesh with a part of the man's robe, the gate guard came running up.

"What's the meaning of this?" He demanded, his voice echoing within his full helmet.

Before Eoric could explain, Mjoll interceded. "It's alright Edgtho. This man was an assassin, we killed him whilst he was trying to escape after attempting to murder my friend, The Dragonborn, here."

Finding himself in front of the Thane of the city and the hero of all Skyrim, the guardsman immediately straightened slightly. When he spoke, his voice had lost its accusatory tone. "An assassin, ma'am. Very well, as you say it." He then looked down at the body. "Certainly looks like one."

"Well we might as well see who he is." Eoric said, grabbing the body and flipping it with a slight grunt of effort. Pulling away the strip of cloth that concealed the assassin's face, Eoric revealed the visage of a young wood elf, perhaps no younger than twenty-five. Dark red-brown hair fell across his face and a pair of light brown eyes stared up at nothing.

"Do you know this man?" The gate guard asked.

Returning his arrow to the quiver, Eoric shook his head. "I don't."

"I don't either." Mjoll replied.

"Curious." The guard said, before walking over to where the assassin's dagger had flown.

"Indeed." Aerin said, looking down at the young would-be murderer. "Who'd go to all the trouble of _hiring _someone to-"

Suddenly he stopped speaking. Pain erupted in his chest, which he clutched, face contorted in agony as he fell to his knees, then onto his back. All was pain, it was as if his blood had become liquid fire, sending fresh torments with every beat of his heart. On the snow covered ground he writhed, trying to escape the pain somehow. Immediately Mjoll was at his side.

"Aerin!" She near-screamed, cradling his head in her lap.

Thorek was the first to spot the long cut on his arm.

"Eoric, there!" He said, pointing to the wound. The pieces clicked together instantly. Poison.

Turning, Eoric called out to the guardsman, who had been stooped over the dagger when Aerin fell. "Don't touch the blade!"

Looking up, the guardsman ran over, the dagger held gingerly in his hands. "Dear gods, what kind of poison is this?"

"I don't know." Eoric said, racking his brains for an answer. He then turned to Thorek.

Seeing his questioning gaze, the older warrior shook his head. "I'm sorry lad, my skills lie in healing people not harming them."

Scowling, the Dragonborn forced down his emotions and cleared his head. Having done so, he started doing what needed to be done. "Hakon." He said, turning to the young man, who was staring wide-eyed at Aerin's writhing form. "Fetch one of the priests from the temple, quickly now."

Hakon nodded but before he could move the guard spoke up. "Sorry Dragonborn, that won't do any good."

"What do you mean?" Eoric asked, looking at the guard, his gaze momentarily dropping to the dagger.

"Maramal, Alessandra and Dinya are away on pilgrimage. Only priest left is young Briehl. The lad's got the gift but is untrained." The guard explained hurriedly. "He might be able to close the cut, but he won't be able to cure the poison."

"Damn it!" Eoric spat, before a solution came rapidly to mind. "On the lower boardwalk there's an alchemist's shop, Elgrim's Elixirs. Wake him up and bring him to Mjoll's house."

"What if he won't come?" Hakon asked. Priests were bound by sacred oath to provide assistance, alchemists were not.

"Then he'll answer to me." Eoric said, with a voice as hard as iron.

"And me." Mjoll practically growled.

Nodding, Hakon sped off into the night. The canal boardwalks were often dangerous places to go after dark, but Eoric had faith in the young man's abilities to see off any troublemakers.

Suddenly Aerin stopped writhing, his body went slack and for one terrible moment it seemed the poison had done its work. But then they noticed the faintest rise and fall of Aerin's chest, the slightest sound of exhalation.

"Come on," Eoric said, kneeling down next to the fallen man. "Let's get him back inside, this snow isn't going to be helping him."

As he, Thorek and Mjoll made ready to move Aerin, the gate guard spoke up. "I need to go inform the Captain."

"Alright." Eoric nodded. "But I'll need to hang onto that dagger; Elgrim might be able to get some of the poison off of it and make an antidote."

"I suppose that makes sense." The guard said, handing over the knife.

Taking care not to brush the blade overly much against the wool of his trousers, Eoric threaded the knife through one of his belt hoops. Then, working together, Eoric, Mjoll and Thorek carried Aerin as gently as they could back into his house, whilst the guard hurried to make his report to his captain.

* * *

Roughly ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door of Aerin and Mjoll's house. Thorek, who had used the time since they'd placed Aerin back in his bed to assemble his weapons and put on his armor, just in case there was anymore trouble, answered it. Outside stood Hakon, still dressed only in his light sleeping clothes, and the alchemist known as Elgrim. He did not look happy.

He was a small man, for a Nord, his head stooped over slightly with age. Deep lines ran across a weather-beaten face that was marked by a large drooping mustache. Beneath heavy, hooded brows were a pair of blue eyes that smoldered with indignation and annoyance at having been woken up in the night; a fact made obvious by his clothing, which was only a set of bedclothes worn beneath a heavy cloak. Over one shoulder hung a large leather alchemical satchel, that clinked slightly as the old man shifted his weight.

"Well," Elgrim said, vexation plain in his rasping voice. "Where is he?"

"Up here." Thorek said, staring down the old man through the eye holes of his helmet before opening the door wide and allowing the men entrance. As he led the alchemist towards the stairs, he looked over his shoulder at Hakon. "Lad, got get some proper clothes on before you freeze."

Nodding, Hakon made his way downstairs whilst Thorek and Elgrim went upstairs.

Opening the door, the alchemist men entered Aerin's room while Thorek turned and went back downstairs. Aerin lay upon his bed, above the thick coverings despite the chill. Mjoll was sat against the far wall, holding one of his hands whilst Eoric, now also dressed with his large seax knife strapped to his side, was standing in the corner of the room. Aerin looked worse, the candlelight showed that his skin had become deathly pale, beads of sweat hung upon his brow and his breathing was ragged and unsteady. Thankfully he was still passed out, his brain was keeping the worst of the pain from him at least.

Looking up from the sickbed, Eoric nodded in greetings at the two men.

"Elgrim," He said, whilst Mjoll did not even seem to register their presence. "Good to see you."

The old alchemist harrumphed. "Wish I could say the same, Dragonborn. I don't appreciate being dragged from my bed in the middle of the night." The man's old eyes narrowed. "Nor do I appreciate threats, no matter how politely your messenger boy put them."

"There was no time Elgrim." Mjoll spoke from the bedside. Her voice was empty and without emotion. "There still isn't."

"Very well, Thane Mjoll." Elgrim said, putting down his satchel before leaning over Aerin's unconscious form. "Let's have a look at him."

For some time the alchemist examined his new patient. He felt for a tracked Aerin's pulse, listened acutely to his breathing, felt the heat of his brow. Opening his eyelids, he then took a look at Aerin's eyes, seeing whether they reacted to the movement of a candle. He then tested how easily Aerin's limbs could be moved, an experiment that elicited groans of protest from Aerin, even in his stupor, at the slightest movements. He examined the wound that the assassin's knife had dealt, sniffing at the cut for any sign of corruption or for the scent of the poison itself. Washing with a rag dipped in a sharp smelling liquid, which again elicited a groan from the fallen man, he then used a curved needle of bone and silken thread to close up the gash.

Having done that, Elgrim stood.

"Well, from what I have seen this is a vicious poison we're dealing with, not just some rot ripped out of a Frostbite Spider." He said, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag.

"You mean you don't know what it is?" Eoric asked from the corner.

"Not off the top of my head, no." Elgrim admitted. "But I have narrowed down it's effects."

"Can you save him?" Mjoll asked, looking up at the alchemist.

Elgrim snorted in response. "Of course I can, Lady Mjoll."

Then, groaning as he bent over, he took from his satchel a vial of dark green liquid. He then held it to the light of one of the candles, before nodding.

"This draught is a curative; made from Mugwort, Amanita and Bergamot." He explained. "It should purge the poison from his system, but it will make him very weak."

Mjoll nodded. "Just do it."

"Very well." Elgrim said, moving back to Aerin's bedside. Tipping the Imperial's head back, he slowly poured the elixir down his throat. Aerin sputtered a few times, but eventually the whole draught was down his gullet.

For a few moments after Aerin was silent, but then he started gagging, a nasty phlegmy choking sound rose in his throat and the unconscious man's eyes flew open. Immediately Elgrim span around.

"Dragonborn, a bucket, quick!" He ordered, a worried tone in his voice.

Seeing one upon the floor, full of tools of varying descriptions, Eoric upended it and handed it to the alchemist. Elgrim then took Aerin's head and directed it forcefully towards the now empty bucket. What happened next was not pretty. Thick black bile came streaming out of Aerin's mouth, the stench coming off of which was terrible. His eyes bulged and the muscles of his neck stood out like ropes. After perhaps half a minute Aerin could expel nothing else and sank back onto the bed, eyes closing once more.

Looking over at Elgrim, Eoric spoke up, having only limited knowledge of alchemy. "Well? Did it work?"

Elgrim didn't even look back at the question, he kept his gaze fixed on Aerin's once again unconscious form. But when he spoke his voice was tinged with a mixture of sadness and confusion.

"No." He said, shaking his head sadly. "No, it did not."

"Then what do we do now?" Mjoll asked, her own voice gaining an edge of anger.

The old alchemist did not reply. Instead he turned back to his bag and began to once more root around in it. After a moment he pulled out a small case, leather bound with brass fittings. Opening it he revealed a set of vials, filled with a deep red liquid. Sliding one from it's clasp, he placed the case on Aerin's bedside table and then upended the contents of the vial into Aerin's throat. Thankfully there was not a repeat of the previous attempt's results; what little remained in Aerin's stomach stayed there.

"What was that?" Mjoll demanded, standing up and fixing the alchemist with a glare.

Elgrim spread his hands in placatory manner. "Nothing that will do him ill." He held up the now empty vial. "A tincture of Thistle, Yellow and Blue mountain flowers and Imp Stool cap. It won't stop the poison, but it'll slow down it's effects while I find an antidote."

"What do you mean, _'slow down the effects'?_" Eoric asked, looking over at the case, at least nine other vials remained.

"Imagine his body's like a house." Elgrim explained. "The poison is knocking down the walls, when all the walls are gone, the house collapses." He gestured to the empty vial as he slotted it back into the case. "This'll rebuild the walls, but won't stop the poison knocking them down. That's what we need the antidote for. Leaving the case of vials on the table, Elgrim then picked up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. "Give him one vial every six hours."

"Every six hours," Eoric nodded. "Understood."

"Elgrim." Mjoll spoke as the old alchemist turned to leave. "Is there anything else we can do?"

"Do you keep the gods, Thane Mjoll?" Elgrim asked in reply.

"I do."

"Then pray that I find the antidote before we run out of that tincture."

With that the old alchemist made his way out of the house and back to his shop. He had a lot of research to do.

* * *

Hours later, just before midday, Hakon found himself leaning against the guardrail of the bridge that spanned the canal outside Mjoll and Aerin's house. Though he hadn't moved in a while, lost in his own thoughts, the cold didn't bother him thanks to the cloak and brown leather over-shirt he had on. Around him the people of Riften went about their daily lives; merchants selling their wares to all comers, fishery and meadery workers getting ready to go on break, the town smith instructing his apprentice as Hakon supposed Eoric did his eldest son, Hroar. A few people had looked his way, but that was to be expected, it wasn't every traveler who got into an argument with the Jarl's son.

Hakon sighed as his mind drifted back to the previous night. Eoric had been right, he shouldn't have gotten into an argument with the drunken nobleman, it had been stupid. Justified, but stupid. And now everything had gone to hell; an assassin had tried to kill Eoric and now Aerin lay at death's door. Despite the short time he had known him, Hakon liked the Imperial, it would be a great loss for him to slip away to...wherever it was that Imperials went to when they died. His tutor at Northpoint had taught him the different realms of Aetherius, where the worthy of the ten races went in the afterlife, but he had forgotten.

At that point someone walked out the door of the Bee and Barb. Absently looking over, Hakon saw that it was none other than Kara. She too was dressed well for the cold; with a thick-looking tunic of grey wool worn beneath a large dark blue cloak, edged in fur. Smiling slightly, he raised a hand in greeting. She spotted him and did the same, before beginning to walk towards him, her shin-length leather boots sinking into the partially cleared snow.

"Hello there." He said, the smile still upon his lips as she drew up next to him.

"Hi Hakon," She said, leaning her back against the guardrail. "How're you doing?"

"As well as I can be." Hakon replied, shrugging.

"I heard about the attack last night," She said, tone dropping slightly. "I heard your friend, the Imperial, was hurt. How's he doing?"

Hakon shook his head. "Not good. The dagger he was cut with was poisoned and unless the alchemist can figure out what poison's affecting him then he won't make it."

"I'm sorry." Kara replied, putting a gloved hand to Hakon's shoulder. "He seemed nice last night, lively."

Hakon sighed slightly. "Aye, he's a good man. It's not right what's happened to him."

Kara tilted her head then. "You don't think the Jarl's son is behind it do you? The one you got into an argument with last night?"

Once again Hakon shrugged his shoulders. "I honestly don't know." He turned to look back along the frozen canal. "And even if I did, I can't prove it." He smiled a rueful smile. "Don't think it would be a good idea to barge into the keep and start accusing the Jarl's son."

"Didn't seem to stop you calling him a drunken wretch, who couldn't find his arse with both hands." Kara teased slightly, a grin on her face.

"Heh," Hakon said, before turning to face her. "Well, if you're buying I'll get drunk enough to do that again."

That provoked a chuckle from both the two young Nords.

"I'm quite sure it's usually the man that offers to buy the drinks." Kara said, smiling.

"What can I say?" Hakon replied, spreading his arms beneath his cloak. "I'm an innovator."

That prompted more laughter, but it soon died as Kara noticed something over Hakon's shoulder. Seeing her expression change, Hakon turned around to get a look at what she'd seen.

Walking down the street that led to Aerin and Mjoll's house was a trio of guards. At their head, marked by his black iron chestplate and black trimmed purple cloak, was probably their captain. He looked a hard man, with black hair shot through with silver that hung backwards from a high widow's peak to halfway down his neck. As he walked he scratched absently at his close-shorn beard.

"What's this about?" Hakon asked nobody in particular.

"I don't know." Kara replied as the guards drew up in front of the door to Aerin and Mjoll's house. "But I doubt it's good."

* * *

Eoric was the one to answer the knock of a gauntleted hand on the front door. Opening it revealed the weather-beaten face of a man who had seen more than his share of violence. His rank was apparent but Eoric did not know the man, he had probably been brought in from the outside to take command of the Riften Guards. He looked solid enough, but only time would tell.

"Dragonborn." He nodded. "I'm Captain Fulgrim, Riften Hold Guards." His voice was low and gravely, his demeanor direct and professional.

"Eoric Greystone." Came the reply, then he stepped aside from the doorway. "Please, come in."

"Thank you." The Captain said, doing so before turning to his two subordinates. "Stay outside."

"Yes sir!" The two guardsmen said together, before standing to each side of the door as it shut behind them.

Now alone, Eoric spoke up. "What can I do for you Captain?"

"The dagger this assassin used, the one that was poisoned," Brushing loose bits of snow from it, Captain Fulgrim doffed his cloak. "I need to take a look at it."

"Of course, of course." Eoric said, before leading the Captain up the stairs. Thorek had gone out on a few errands, to get food and to collect what change they were owed by Talen-Jei after last night, so the only other person in the house was Mjoll, who had only moved from Aerin's bedside once in order to change out of her nightclothes. As the two men entered Aerin's room she stood up.

"Captain Fulgrim." She said, nodding in greetings.

"Thane Mjoll." The Captain replied, before looking down at where Aerin lay, dead to the world. His color was at least not so corpselike as it had been but a fever still raged and any movement continued to bring him agony.

"I'm surprised you're leading the investigation yourself Captain." Mjoll said, sitting back down.

"I found it best that I did so, ma'am." Fulgrim explained. "Considering that this attack involved both The Dragonborn and yourself."

"Have you made any progress with the investigation?" Eoric asked.

"Aye sir, we have." Captain Fulgrim answered, before he spotted the dagger laying on Aerin's desk. "This is the blade?"

Nodding, Eoric watched as the Captain picked up the blade and began examining it. While he did so Eoric found himself doing the same thing. The blade was thin, maybe an inch wide, and twelve inches long. It was double edged and made of polished steel, despite the attempts of the assassin to mar it so it wouldn't gleam so brightly in moonlight. The hilt was a typical design, a grip with room for two hands and a crossbar eight inches from tip to tip.

Putting it back down again, Captain Fulgrim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Seeing the Captain's reaction, Mjoll asked the obvious question.

"What is it Captain?" She asked, as Aerin shifted slightly on the bed.

"It's nothing my Thane." Fulgrim said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's just that this dagger is made from castle-forged steel. That, as well as evidence found on the body of the assassin who tried to kill the Dragonborn and who has gravely injured your friend points to only one person."

"Harrald Law-Giver." Eoric guessed, his voice grave.

"Aye." The Guard Captain nodded, before sighing once more. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go arrest my Jarl's son."

Picking up the dagger again, the captain left the room and went off to do his duty.

* * *

The next day Cyrus Azaan was sat in his house, absently reading in one of the armchairs in front of his fireplace. The objects of his attentions were in fact a set of reports sent up by Delvin, locations of objects worth 'taking a look at'. There was indeed a fine selection of quality goods: High King Ulfric had recently commissioned a new set of plate from Eorlund Greymane itself, which would be traveling by cart to Windhelm on the twentieth of next month; the shattered fragments of the Amulet of Kings had apparently been found, though Delvin did not know who by nor where they were being kept; Lord Khafiz of Hammerfell had recently taken possession of a paired set of ancient Ra'Gada tulwars, said to have been carried by his ancestor when they first landed on Tamrielic soil; there was something about some Imperial noblemen secretly collecting holy relics from the First Era and finally a museum was opening up in the city of Blacklight, showcasing salvaged treasures of the Dwemer.

Putting down the sheaf of paper on the side table, Cyrus stared into the fire as his mind turned over the list of possible targets. The king's new armor, though a worthy prize, was off the table. If they stole from the king Eoric would find out, he was as close to the man as kin after all, and then Eoric would come down here and yell at him and he'd have to either give it back or face a warrior who could kill things by talking too loudly.

Lord Khafiz's Ra'Gadan tulwars seemed a good target, but it just didn't sit well with him. Not because it would be stealing ancestral weapons off of the first independent ruler of his country but because they'd have to pay off not only a score of border guards and magistrates, but also the Thieve's Guild of Hammerfell and those guys were literally cutthroat when it came to protecting their business.

Both the Amulet of Kings' remains and the First Era relics were just too nebulous for him and even if Delvin could get his hands on more information it would probably be for nothing. The amulet would probably end up being nothing more than some slivers of glass and the relics would probably some idiot of a nobleman buying up every bone a traveling tinker told him came from Saint Nobody of Somewhere. Hardly worth expending even more guild resources on it.

The Blacklight museum however, that was interesting. Dwemer artifacts always sold well, no matter where you were. For the museum to be opening with them they had to be good and Blacklight was close enough to the border to get in and out without his opposite number in Morrowind even knowing they were there. Vex was already down in Cyrodiil, preparing for the Imperial City job, along with Vipir and Niruin, so he needed a good infiltrator. Etienne had proven himself after breaking into the Markarth Treasure House without nobody noticing, so he'd have the job. Thrynn would go along in support, just in case it all went south.

Just as he made his decision, there was nock at his door. Opening it, he saw it was Brynjolf, his friend and second-in-command. The Nordic thief was dressed in his leathers, his hood drawn up over his face.

"The trial's about to start is it?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Aye, it is." Brynjolf answered, stepping inside.

As his second walked towards the fireplace and pulled off his hood, Cyrus donned a high collared longcoat of black wool.

"Seeing as you're not wearing your street clothes I'm to take it you're not coming?" He asked, pulling on a pair of boots, the insides of which concealed a small dagger each.

"Nah," Brynjolf said, warming his hands slightly. "The fool's got no chance. He's as well cooked as my grandmother's roast at New Years"

"As you wish." Cyrus said, heading out the door before turning back to Brynjolf. "Tell Delvin I only want the Blacklight museum job seen to. Have him give it to Etienne and Thrynn."

"You got it." Brynjolf replied, picking up the collection of schemes.

"And lock up when you leave." Cyrus called over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.

As he walked the distance between his front door and Mistveil Keep, Cyrus considered the case he was about to see tried. In all honesty he'd never expected that Harrald Law-Giver would be stupid enough to send an assassin after Eoric, even after the verbal flaying he'd given him in the Bee and Barb. And from what he'd heard the assassin hadn't even attempted a good job of it, not only getting caught but injuring someone who wasn't the target. If the Dark Brotherhood knew they'd be laughing their heads off.

Well they would if they weren't all dead.

Walking up the steps to Mistveil Keep he was stopped by one of the Hold Guards standing by the doors to the great hall.

"Sorry sir," The guard said, stepping forward. "We're to check all coming to watch the trial for weapons, Captain Fulgrim's orders."

"_Ah yes, Captain Fulgrim." _Cyrus thought to himself. The new Captain of the Guard had definitely been an interesting development. A veteran of the rebellion like so many new guards, he seemed completely incorruptible.

But that didn't mean his men were.

Smiling, Cyrus opened his coat and took a small pouch of coins from his belt. "Surely we can forgo that?" He said, weighing the gold with his hand. "As you can see, I'm not carrying anything."

The guard tilted his head, evidently trying to work just how much. He then nodded. "Indeed, sir, you aren't. You can go right ahead."

"Good man." Cyrus said, throwing the guard the coin pouch before stepping inside the hall.

Even though the trial was yet to start the great hall of Mistveil Keep was already full of people. The Jarl had decided to try Harrald openly, so as to prevent anybody protesting that he was being given more lenient a sentence due to him being her son and so here stood those whose time was bound in service to another; Bolli, the owner of the Riften Fishery, was their with Nivenor, his wife as was Haelga, the owner of the bunkhouse, well known for her...mastery of the Dibellan arts. Several of the city's merchants had also closed their stalls to come see the proceedings, his dark eyes picked out Madesi, the Argonian jeweler and Brand-Shei, the Dunmeri shop keeper that he'd deliberately avoided framing years ago when he first came to Riften. Bersi Honey-Hand and his wife were also there, having evidently left their store in the hands of the shop-boy Samuel. He noticed also the mercenary magi that held a long-standing room at the Bee and Barb, Marcurio wasn't it.

At the front and center of the assembled people, just below the set of steps that led to the raised area where the trial would actually take place, stood none other Maven Black-Briar, looking as imperious as ever alongside her son Hemming. Next to them stood the other known noble family in Riften, the Snow-Shods. Nura Snow-Shod had died some years ago, bringing yet more grief to her surviving family, which now only numbered Vulwulf, Asgeir and Unmid. The latter was stood at the side of the door which led to the Hall's living quarters whilst the two former stood to the right of Hemming Black-Briar.

Winding his way quietly through the crowd, subconsciously taking stock of what each person had on them, he stood next to Asgeir, who nodded a hello. He was a good man, Asgeir, it was a shame his wife, a cousin of Titus Mede II, had left him soon after the rebellion's victory and returned to Cyrodiil. Since then he had thrown himself into his work at the Black-Briar meadery. As he leant against one of the oaken beams at the side of the hall Maven looked over at him. He took the opportunity to send her way an exaggerated smile of warmth and welcome. It was if he had never had his men steal every stitch of clothing she owned and hang them all over town. In response to his smile she simply turned away. At that Cyrus then smiled genuinely, this time to himself only.

Then behind him the great doors opened and in walked none other than Eoric Greystone, Dragonborn and, at least in writing, General of Skyrim's Army. He cut an impressive figure to say the least, even without his fabled sword. He was not dressed like the other people in the hall, bedecked in varying forms of finery. No, he was dressed like what he was, a warrior-born. His armor, forged of Skyforge Steel and bearing everywhere upon it lupine motifs, was truly impressive, Cyrus couldn't help but feel goose-flesh rise on the skin of his arms as he beheld the World-Eater's Bane. Harrald truly had been stupid if he'd thought one assassin could kill this man.

Casting those powerful grey eyes of his around the hall, Eoric surveyed the assembled group. The finally locked onto him and the Dragonborn made his way through the crowd, who promptly got out of the way of the armored warrior's way, towards him. Nodding in greeting, Eoric stood beside him, Asgeir wisely stepping to his left to allow him a place to stand. Out of the corner of his eye Cyrus noticed Maven look over, but if Eoric saw he did not respond.

"Where's Thane Mjoll?" He asked Eoric, keeping his voice just above a whisper.

"At her home, still watching over Aerin." Eoric responded, his voice as hard as iron. "She has not left his side since his collapse."

"How is he doing?" Cyrus asked, keeping his eyes forward, towards the door the Jarl would enter by.

"He's slowly getting worse." Eoric said. "If something doesn't happen, he won't last the week."

"I am sorry, Eoric." Cyrus admitted, truthfully.

"You didn't set the assassin on me, Cyrus." The Dragonborn stated. "You have no cause to be sorry."

As though fate driven, as soon as that sentence ended the trial began. First out came Jarl Laila, along with her ever-present steward, and by the gods if there was ever a woman who looked in pain she was it, most would not see it, hidden as it was behind a mask of duty, but Cyrus could read someone's face as easily as others read words upon parchment. He found himself feeling impressed that despite the sadness she must've been feeling that she still wished to go ahead with trying her son herself. Then out came Captain Fulgrim, who proceeded to place a series of objects on a low table at one side of the hall. Taking a look, Cyrus saw that it was what seemed to be a coin pouch, a roll of parchment and what could only be the assassin's dagger.

Then, hands manacled and escorted by a duo of guards, out came the accused: Harrald Law-Giver. He was in a sorry state. He was dressed not in his specially forged armor or his regal finery but rather only a set of prison rags, his hair hung in a shaggy mess and his eyes were ringed by dark circles indicative of a sleepless night on the floor of a prison cell. As he entered he noticed Eoric's eyes narrow, but otherwise the Dragonborn kept his peace as did everyone else in fact, there was none of the name-calling or pelting with rotten produce that usually accompanied public trials. Maybe the guards had been searching for vegetables too. It was probably the easier task; tomatoes are very difficult to effectively conceal.

As Harrald was placed in and chained to a chair, the trial began. Jarl Laila was the first to speak, sat upon her throne.

"My people!" She called out, her voice strong despite her grief. "And honored guests, we are assembled here today to try this man, Harrald Law-Giver, for the crimes he is accused of; which are multiple and grave. He stands accused of payment of an assassin, attempted murder, grievous wounding via proxy and theft of Riften Hold property. If found guilty he will be," The Jarl took but a second to steady herself. "Executed."

Whispers spread through some of the crowd and Cyrus' eyebrows rose momentarily. The sentence was the legal one but he'd expected the Jarl to change it to Life Imprisonment life Sibbi Black-Briar, it seemed the Jarl was serious about setting an example that familial bonds were not to overpower the Law.

Jarl Laila then turned to look at her son. "Harrald Law-Giver, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty!" He called out, an edge of defiance in his voice. It seemed that he believed he could escape the charges.

The Jarl then turned to the Captain of her Hold Guards. "Captain, if you will?"

"Aye, my lady." Fulgrim said, bowing his head before beginning his role as prosecutor. "Harrald Law-Giver, you stand accused of numerous crimes yet you plead guilty, correct?"

"Yes, I do." Harrald said, his tone neutral, his face and mannerisms exhibiting control.

"So you did not pay an assassin to murder Eoric Greystone, known also as the Dragonborn?" Captain Fulgrim asked.

"I. Did. Not." Came the reply.

Walking over to the table, Captain Fulgrim then proceeded to pick up the roll of parchment. He then held it up, before continuing to address the gathering. "This was found on the dead assassin's person. It is an order describing the intended target, with details of a five-hundred Septim payment for the deed." He then proceeded to hold it out to the Jarl for her inspection. "I am loathe to do this, my lady, but I must ask. Whose handwriting is this?"

Jarl Laila looked at the letter and then, after a moment, spoke in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried to all listening. "This is Harrald's handwriting. There can be no doubt of it."

The accused's response was instantaneous as whispers spread through the crowd.

"What!" He roared, straining slightly at his bonds. "Let me see that!"

Obliging, Captain Fulgrim walked over and held the letter before Harrald's eyes. Shock flashed across the Jarl's son's face, clear to everyone watching. "That can't be." He said, voice dropping slightly. But then it regained it's prior volume. "This must be a mistake! I never wrote that!"

"So you say." Captain Fulgrim replied, his tone nothing but professional. He then went and placed the letter back on the table. Having done so, he the went on to pick up the dagger that had been used in the attack. "I now call to witness Balimund the smith."

In response to his words Balimund, still dressed in his forging clothes, stepped out from the private area of the hall and took the only other empty seat on the raised area. Captain Fulgrim then walked up to him and spoke once more.

"Would you please tell the court what this is?" He asked, handing the dagger to the smith.

Balimund looked over the blade, before finally speaking. "It's a dagger I made, one of a set of twenty that were sold to the garrison of Mistveil Keep."

"A place where Harrald Law-Giver would have easy access to it." Captain Fulgrim said, taking back the dagger.

"This can't be right!" Harrald called out. "I didn't do this!"

"Silence!" Unmid Snow-Shod barked, his command echoing around the hall.

"Finally," Captain Fulgrim said, picking up the large bag of coins. "We come to this. Five hundred Septims, confirmed as stolen from the Riften treasury here within Mistveil Keep." He pointed one accusing finger at Harrald. "Found within the chambers of none other than Harrald Law-Giver!"

Gasps once again filled the hall.

"I put it forth that you Harrald Law-Giver," The Captain finished. "You stole both the weapon and the money and then, finding some lowlife in the Ratways, used them in a contemptible scheme to kill Eoric Greystone, the Dragonborn and a hero of all Skyrim!"

Cyrus pursed his lips, and not just at the Captain's insult to the denizens of the Ratways. It seemed Brynjolf had been right. The Jarl's son was well and truly trapped. He had to give it to the man, he hadn't really thought it through. He should have used his own funds and have told the assassin to use his own blade for the kill. He then noticed that Harrald wasn't arguing or even defending himself. He was just sat there, a look of complete and utter desolation and despair upon his face.

Finally, after minutes of silence, Jarl Laila rose from her throne. It was plain to see that her mask was beginning to crack, the pain she was feeling starting to seep through, but she rallied herself and spoke with all the authority that she, the Jarl of Riften, possessed.

"Harrald Law-Giver, having seen the damning evidence presented here in the court, I find no choice but to find you guilty of all charges. By my power as Jarl of Riften, I denounce you and attaint you, I strip from you all ranks and titles and holdings and sentence you to die. The sentence shall be carried out upon the return of the Priest of Arkay, three days hence." She then turned to Captain Fulgrim. "Take him away."

Harrald was silent, probably in shock, as the guards unshackled him from the chair. Only when they began to take him from the hall did he begin to cry out, his voice racked with pain and despair.

"I didn't do this, please you have to believe me! I didn't do this!" His eyes were wild, looking anywhere for someone to leap to his defense. "Someone's setting me up!" His eyes fixed onto Eoric. "Dragonborn you have to believe me! It wasn't me!" Eoric however said nothing, his face was a mask of iron, unyielding and unreadable. As the guards began to physically drag him away his cries became even more desperate. "Mother, I didn't do it! Don't do this, please! Mother, it's me, it's your son! Don't do this!"

Finally he was dragged from the hall, his cries echoing as he was dragged to the dungeons to await his execution.

* * *

Hours later, after a quiet meal at Mjoll and Aerin's house, Eoric sat awake in a chair whilst on the floor below him Hakon and Thorek slept. He could not sleep, he was deeply unsettled. It was not the attempt on his life that worried him, at least not directly. In his life other such attacks had been made against him. Once he had been targeted by none other than the Dark Brotherhood itself. He had never found out who had sent the assassin after him all those years ago and indeed had let it go in his mind until one fateful day when he had been riding in the north of Whiterun hold.

He had come across a homestead, a small enough farm tended by a man and his wife. They'd been arguing, not amongst themselves, but with a bizarrely dressed man whose wagon wheel had broken upon the road. Deciding to intervene, he asked the farmer, a man by the name of Loreius, why he would not help the strange man, it seemed a simple enough request and though the man was decidedly odd that seemed no reason to deny a simple act of charity. He had simply said "Go and talk to him yourself."

Upon doing so, he saw, or rather smelt, the problem. The wagon reeked of death and decay, a stench so pungent he could smell it from more than five meters away. It was emanating from the large crate that was loaded onto the cart. Instantly on his guard, he had asked the man what he was transporting. At that he had begun ranting, raving complete nonsense and calling to his mother, though he was completely alone. Then he had drawn a wicked looking blade, a daedric dagger, and attacked, raving all the way, calling him a wolf who walked as man. The jester had been fast, skilled and crazed but eventually he'd fallen, practically impaling himself on the Skyforged greatsword he'd used before crafting the Stormblade.

A guard patrol had come along then and, after Loreius had helped cleared him of any charges, they had opened up the foul smelling crate. Inside they had found an ornate iron coffin and inside that, he still shuddered to think of it, a desiccated corpse of a woman long dead, preserved beyond all decency. The guards then burned the jester and his mother upon a pyre made from the broken wagon whilst he had continued riding north, eager to put the whole disturbing incident behind him.

Then a few days later, having gone to sleep in the Nightgate inn, he'd awoken in an abandoned shack on the edge of the marshes of Hjaalmarch. As he'd gotten out of bed before him stood none other than the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, now a remnant of its former power. It seemed the crazed jester had been an enemy of the Brotherhood and, seeing as he'd killed him, she wanted to offer him a place within their band of murderers. If the fact that they'd tried to kill him once already wasn't enough, the fact that the offer was contingent on killing at least one of three bound captives had been more than enough to do as he did. As soon as their leader had given him her blade to do the deed, he turned it upon her. Ramming it deep into her belly, he retrieved his own greatsword and struck off her head.

Releasing the captives he had then set about tracking down the Dark Brotherhood's base of operations. Making use of the fact he was at that point still relatively unknown as a member of Ulfric's rebellion he'd been able to pass into Imperial held territory where he'd in fact consulted with the head of the Imperial Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's bodyguards and intelligence service. He had been the one to give him the location of their lair, deep in the woods of Falkreath. Traveling there he blew the protective door off of its hinges with a shout and put them all to the sword, even a vampire who had the form of a little girl. The Brotherhood destroyed once and for all, he had burnt their pit until it was nothing more than a charred ruin.

So it was not the attempt on his life that concerned him. It was the fact that no matter what he had a deep seated feeling that something wasn't right, that what had happened today at the trial, despite all the evidence including a letter written in Harrald's own hand, was wrong. Harrald's protestations had truly seemed genuine but it was more than that, it was deep-seated feeling of unease, it was if his very blood was telling him that Harrald was not his would-be killer.

Finally, after much time spent in silence, a memory came to him. The deep, ancient voice of Paarthurnax echoed in his mind. A piece of advice given long ago, upon the Throat of the World.

"_Trust in your instincts, Dovahkiin. They will never lead you astray."_

Slowly, a smile spread across his face. He knew what he had to do. He was going to prove Harrald Law-Giver innocent.

And he was going to find out who _really_ tried to kill him.

**A/N: Well I hope you all enjoyed that and to anybody who's wondering what the hell that last bit was about, just remember what Baurus said.**


End file.
